Gotham 1945
by Chrispumah
Summary: WW2 is over, but the war in the streets has just begun. A revision on the Batman universe set in the 1940s. No magic or any other DC interventions. Just pure Batman. Rated T for blood, voilence, and dark tones. [UNDER REBOOTING]
1. Act 1: Batman

(A/N: Someone asked me the question if they could do a story similar to mine when I started it. I am giving full permission to anyone that wants to base their own Batman Fanfics on all my Batman characters' origins and characteristics. But, only if you say your fic is based on Gotham 1945, mainly so your readers will understand which Batman universe you are using. Also please PM me your fic so I can read it, I'm interested to the fullest.)

World War 2 had taken too many. A six year war that had to end with the entire destruction of two Japanese cities, it was the last conflict America would want to see.

America was finally done with their Campaign on both theaters. The soldiers who fought all over the world can now enter their last journey back to the States. Some had to stay behind to keep things in order, but for the others it was a long sigh of relief. No more killing and fear of death. They just had to get on the ships heading home and leave all of their troubles for the past. The troops were more than happy to return home, eager to return to their families and lives.

Everyone will talk about the heroes made during the war. The war heroes are seen as the ones painted with medals, to put then up on the mantle and let their kids know of the great things they've done. A hero is known as someone who survived the worst and made it out in one piece, able tell everyone how important they were in battle. They are the ones that saved the day by being better than everyone else, setting themselves apart from the rest. But that is not what a real hero is.

The real heroes made it back in a casket to be given their well-deserved funerals.

Bruce Wayne looked out the mansion's window to see the parade outside. Confetti and balloons flew to the clouds as floats and marchers celebrated the return of the military troops. The docks farther into Gotham City held thousands of people, soldiers and family members alike. Loved ones embraced their sons and husbands after not seeing them in what seemed to be forever. The soldiers continued to pour out of the large transport ship. The multiple exits filled with anxious men tired of waiting to see their families.

Bruce felt happy for all those people, happy about the end of the war. It warmed his heart to see so many people finally able to get on with their lives. His family was happy about it too. His father had invested in the industrial factories created in the lower district of Gotham City to help keep up supplies and vehicles for the war effort. Now those war factories will be turned into civilian ones, further profiting the Wayne family far after the war is done with. His mother is more relieved than glad, not having to worry about her only child being drafted. If Bruce's father hadn't paid off the government to "skip" Bruce's name in the drawing, he might have gone into combat.

His mom entered his bedroom, smiling once she saw him perched at the open window.

"Mom, come over here! You have to see the people down there!" Bruce couldn't contain his excitement. It's been a long time since he's seen that many people all at once.

"Brucy, remember not to get too close to that window." She walked up and closed it, "You can fall out and hurt yourself."

"Mom, I don't have to worry about that. I'm a full grown man!"

"You just barely turned eighteen Brucy." She gave him a loving kiss on the forehead, "It's best to prevent accidents then provoke them. Now get dressed and ready for the party today. All of our friends are going to be here and you need to look sharp for your new wife.

Bruce groaned, "Mom, I do not need you to set up a blind date for me."

Martha swung open the large closet and looked about for some formal wear. "Don't worry honey; she is a very nice girl. And she is a good friend of ours, so you behave nicely with her."

Bruce sighed, "Yes mother."

Setting down a pressed and clean tuxedo by the wire hanger on the bed, Martha headed out the room. "Remember, the party starts at six o'clock. I want you to be there on time to greet most of our guest. You just have to say hello to a few of them and then you can go off to do your own things."

"Yes mother." Bruce picked up the tuxedo, "Well, nothing else to do but get ready."

The Wayne manor was one of the biggest estates inside of Gotham Heights. The large iron gate was down the large sloped front lawn guided by a winding road reaching up to the garage. The back yard held the pool located right outside of the back entrance, with a crochet field a little farther out. The groundskeepers were paid well enough to make sure the grass was trimmed and the pool was crystal clean.

The building had three stories. The first floor consisted of the main entrance hall, the dining room taking up the entire west side, a kitchen, and the living room on the east side. The second floor had most of the bedrooms for the family and the servants. They didn't have that many people working for them, but it was enough to need a few rooms to keep them in. They had the maids, the butlers, the chef, and the groundskeepers there at all times for when they are needed. The third floor was the rooms for the family and held the pull down staircase for the attic.

Most of the invited guest had arrived early. By the time Bruce had begun his descent down the tall stairway in the middle of the entrance hall, people were already at the door. His mother and father stood there, standing in front of the door to greet their friends. He adjusted the bowtie around his neck to see if it was in place, hand combed his hair back a little, and got down to the first floor.

His mother was wearing her fancy dress with her vast assortment of jewelry. The white dress matched with her silver earrings and pearl bracelets. The thin flowing fabric hanging from her arms swayed about whenever she moved her hand to greet a guest. She had her hair wrapped up in a hairstyle that kept a few wavy strands of hair to fall around the side of her face. She always looked younger then she was, many for her abstinence from smoking.

His father was wearing his usual suit, only his gold watch as an accessory. It stuck out of his pocket where he kept his left hand in every time his right hand held his ivory pipe. He didn't smoke that often, but seemed to have a habit of holding it without even knowing. His thick brown moustache covered his upper lip completely, making him look more old fashion. He seemed to be stuck in the 1920s, back from when he was a young adult rising up in the investment business.

The party was a pleasant bustle of Gotham City's residents of Gotham Heights. Everyone there was from the rich section, most of them friends with the Wayne family. The small orchestra played mellow music for people to enjoy during their small conversations. The place wasn't filled to the brim with guest, but it was enough to have everyone get to know each other better.

In the corner near the dining room, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was surrounded by his friends that he brought along to the occasion. He wore his trademark tuxedo, only able to fit his tall and slim stature. His top hat was tilted a bit to the side to give room for his monocle over his right eye. His slightly long black hair was visibly greased back from the sides of his hat.

"So you would never believe what happened today." Oswald quipped in his Cockney accent as he accepted a glass of wine from the waiter. He just turned thirty two a few months ago, his voice and looks far from going away; the only fault on his face being his large beak-like nose. It was the main cause for his voice to sound a bit nasally at times.

"Just try us." The wife of one of his friends provoked.

"Well I was walking down the street, and I saw a young lady getting robbed by a man with a bandana around his face. It looked almost like a stickup in a western movie. Of course the police got him during the act, but the sheer thought of someone doing that in broad daylight is just astounding. He might as well have worn a searchlight on his head and have car horns on the bottom of his shoes!" Everyone around him laughed.

"Why do you think he did it?" Bruce asked. The laugher stopped from his question.

"Pardon me?"

Bruce walked up to the group of friends and settled within them, "I mean he must have had a motive to steal from someone, am I right?"

He put the right end of his long, black cigarette holder between his teeth, cocking his left eyebrow at Bruce as he did. "Why would I think of such a thing?"

"He could be stealing for a number of reasons. He could have been desperate for money, maybe needed to get rid of a bad debt fast. He could have been getting even with her, maybe having an old quarrel with her. Or, maybe it could have just been for sport."

The group laughed in a reprise.

Oswald blew a slim stream of smoke from between his teeth, "I assure you Bruce, the man was just a pitiful thief. They don't need a reason to commit a crime and even if they did, it doesn't matter. All we can do about them is let the Gotham City Police Department take care of them and keep their ill moral ways behind bars. As with all criminals, they are just the same, all people doing bad things. All needing to be brought to justice."

"So you're saying they don't have a reason for committing crime. That they just do it because they just do."

"I'm saying it is none of our business why they do anything. All we have to do is stay clear away from them and let the police handle them. That is why they are being paid for, is it not?"

"Oh Brucey," Martha Wayne interrupted, "I have someone that wants to see you!"

The young lady next to his mother, Barbara Gordon wore a basic black dress. It wasn't anything fancy, but it wasn't cheaply made either. Her welcoming face was partially covered by her long red hair that curled at the ends in individual bits. She had gentle hazel eyes that were surrounded by long eyelashes and lightly applied grey eye shadow. Her full red lips made a happy smile to begin her sentence.

"It's nice to finally meet you again, Mr. Wayne." She held out a hand covered with a long white glove.

Bruce smiled back, "Please, my father is Mr. Wayne. You can just call me Bruce." He chuckle, taking her hand and giving it a polite kiss.

"I will let you two get to know each other Brucey." Martha said patting Bruce on the shoulder, "I'm going to see how our other guests are doing."

"So how have you been Barbara? Still daddy's little princess?"

"As long as you're mommy's little baby."

They laughed together like old times. They didn't have much history in the past, but she always visiting once in a while during events and holidays.

"Is your father here, or is he with police duty?"

"He thought it was nice enough for your family to give everyone a celebration party for the end of the war. It only happens once, so he thought it shouldn't hurt to stop being Commissioner for a day." She peeked to her side to see Martha Wayne looking over at them, "I think it's silly how your mother is trying to get us together."

"Don't worry, you're not the only one. But I have to let her do this until she gets the hint that trying to get me a wife by forcing it on others isn't the way to do it."

Barbara nodded in agreement, "It's okay, I enjoy having fun once in a while. We can just pretend to have dates until you find the one, right?"

Bruce's face showed his interest, "You know, that's actually not a bad idea. It would only be for a little while, but we can just play it out and say it wasn't meant to be."

"It would be a great excuse for me to get out once in a while. Daddy won't let me go out with anyone that doesn't live in luxurious homes with mass of wealth. But I really can't blame him, he's seen the worst of Gotham and he has a good reason to worry about me."

"It's settled then. Just call me when you're free and we'll go somewhere you like. My mother will gladly pay for it, and we can have some fun in the town. Plus I think we need some time out of our homes, don't you agreed?"

Barbara hummed a chuckle and clicked her glass with Bruce's, "To the fullest." She drank her wine slowly to enjoy the taste.

"Ah Bruce!" A males voice called out next to him. His Cajun accent was fully recognizable. Bruce turned to its direction and smiled at the man in a fancy white suit and a white bowler derby. His left hand grasped onto a slim metal cane with a golden handle.

"Edward!" Bruce greeted happily as he shook the man's hand with excitement, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm in town for the month on a much needed vacation. All the stress of stocks and tracking investments does such wonders on the mind."

"It's so good to see you again." Bruce looked over at Barbara who seemed to feel left out, "Oh, Barbara, this is my old friend."

"My, my," Edward said with enthusiasm, "Bruce, you never told me you knew such a beautiful goddess!" He bowed to her and took off his hat, stretching his arms out to the sides, "Edward Nashton is the name. A Southern Bruce Wayne if you will. Although with the way my investments are going, I'll be richer than him in a matter of months."

"Charmed, I'm sure." Barbara said, a little peeved from his self-gloating.

"He takes some getting used to," Bruce told her, "He actually used to live right next to me when we were kids. He was a lot older than me though."

"I was about his age now when I had to leave for Louisiana," Edward added, "My family had most of their business there."

Barbara looked past them to see her father waving over to her, "Great," She groaned, "Daddy wants me to meet more political people. I can't stand those louts. I'll see you later Bruce." She leaned up to him and they exchanged kisses on the cheeks. She gave a waved goodbye on her way to her father.

From the other side, Thomas Wayne approached the two friends with his arms out wide, "Edward, my boy." He hugged him, laughing, "I didn't see you come in."

"I was a little late. The ride over here was a little longer then needed."

"I'm just glad you were able to make it to the party." Thomas said cheerfully, "You do have a place to stay on you rest here, don't you?"

"I was just planning on staying at a hotel in Gotham."

"Oh nonsense, you can stay here. We have plenty of room, right Bruce?"

"That's right; you can stay in the guest room. It's a lot better than any hotel around here."

"I don't want to be a burden on you guys."

"Oh no burden at all." Thomas patted Edward on the back, "That's what friends are for. It'll even get us a chance to catch up on old times."

"Well if you insist, I don't see why not."

"Good, good. Just have your assistant bring your things here in the hall and our servants will bring them to your room."

From the door to the dining room, a butler opened the double doors and stood at the side, "Dinner is ready."

"After dinner of course," Thomas continued, "Come now gentlemen."

Everyone had a seat at the long dinner table in the dining room. Servants walked about placing platters of food and filling glasses. Bruce and his parents sat at the far end of the table, with Thomas at the very end.

He stood up, holding his glass high. "Attention everyone." He said tapping the glass with a fork, "I would like to thank all of you for attending this evening get-together. This is a wonderful day that should be enjoyed by everyone. The war is over and our men have returned. I would like to start by saying how grateful I am for the brave men that fought for our right to live in America the way we do now. If it wasn't for them we'd be speaking German, or worse: Japanese."

The people laughed politely.

Thomas continued, "I would also like to give thanks for the police force for keeping our streets safe during those hard times. With the great depression and all that, I couldn't imagine an easy life for the people affected by it. I also give respect to all of my workers in the factories as they made our war effort possible, for victory wouldn't have been ours if it weren't for them. So in all, I would like to make a toast to the new world. May god bless us all with peace and prosperity, and have those Nazi bastards never show up again." He chuckled to himself, "Cheers!" He clanked his glass with his wife's and son's glass and drank a little to his wishes, as did everyone else.

* * *

><p>The next day was a pleasant morning. The Wayne family ate their breakfast with the servants eating at the table with them. Thomas read the morning paper as he sipped his coffee. He set the cup down on the saucer and flipped the page.<p>

"Get a load of this. Someone is going around Gotham and robbed a bank wearing a gas mask. What kind of nutcase goes ahead and does a thing like that?"

As his father talked, Bruce took off the flakes of crisp batter around his pancakes, making Martha stop and give him a look.

"Brucey, stop playing with your food." She told him.

Bruce stopped and started eating. "Hey dad?" He said after swallowing his food.

"Hmm?"

"Can we go to the store today and buy some boxing gloves?"

"Bruce," His mother interrupted, "how can you ask for those? Don't you know how dangerous they are?"

"Sure son, we can buy you those." His dad said readjusting his reading glasses.

His mother scoffed, "Thomas!"

He took his eyes off the newspaper, "Martha!"

"Bruce can't be fighting people, he might get hurt!"

"Now Martha, I think teaching Bruce how to box is a good idea. If someone ever tries to fight with him then he could defend himself."

"It would be better if he ran away. You should take him to the gym to get better at run instead of trying to fight."

"Martha, just look at the boy. He's able to run just fine. Besides, he needs to get a hobby. Being stuck in the house isn't easy on anyone at his age.

"I agree with dad!" Bruce added.

"Well I just don't like the idea of it. The thought of someone punch my little Brucey in the face. Our one and only child shouldn't be fighting; he should be looking for a wife. If he gets hurt, who's going to carry on the family name? We can't give him a brother or sister after your accident-"

Thomas cleared his throat and nervously chuckled, "Not in front of the servants honey." He said faking a smile.

Martha looked over to the far side of the table and put her hands on her lap. "Just be careful with him."

"Thanks mom." Bruce said finished with his meal. He got up and kissed her on the forehead, "I'm going to change. Just let me know when you guys are ready to head out."

"Oh, wear the new suit I bought you." She said as he left the room, "It's on your dresser."

* * *

><p>The sun shined brightly through the small clouds in the sky. The Wayne family walked down the busy streets of West End on their way to the store. Bruce walked behind his mom and dad, watching the cars driving by and stopping at intersections. They had plenty of money to drive when they shopped, but when it was sunny they preferred to walk. Martha would always tell Bruce that be needed to get out at least once in a while for some fresh air.<p>

From where they were, they could see the smoke rising into the clear blue sky from their factories in the industrial district. It was almost on the other side of the city, but the small black clouds were plainly visible against the light blue. Most of that district was owned by the Wayne family, the other factories being owned by lesser companies. Thomas would always tell the family that he will own the entire district soon enough, when the lesser ones start doing better. He didn't mind buying out companies, but he never wanted one that is doomed to fail.

The shops against the sidewalk were among the common types. Tailors available to make suits and dressed with a custom fit. Barber shops with the white uniformed barbers cut hair while the red and white striped signature tube spun around next to the door. A pawn shop filled with antique furniture and all sorts of small wares. Even the occasional small diners passed by with people filling the seats next to the counter.

After a short while, The Wayne family had made it to the sporting goods store. The bell above the door rang out as they entered. The smell of leather and wood filled the air of the large shop. The man behind the register was a slightly old man with all of his hair missing. He stopped stocking the small shelf behind him with different sport balls and smiled at the people walking in.

"Good morning Mr. Wayne," He greeted with a friendly voice, "What brings you here? Did you come for more golf equipment?"

"I got plenty of that Burt." Thomas said putting his hands on Bruce's shoulders, "I'm here to get some boxing stuff for my boy here."

Bruce just smiled at the clerk.

"Is that little Bruce? Why I haven't seen him in over a decade. He's a lot bigger now." He joked, "Let's see, we got some boxing gloves over here," He said walking over to the right side of the store.

"We'll need just one pair of gloves. I have most of my old boxing stuff in the attic, but anything else we would need."

"Honey," Martha protested, "You said you would just buy him the gloves."

"We don't want him getting hurt, now do we?"

"Let's see then. You will need some hand wraps just in case you hit the bag wrong and some sparring helmets to protect your ears." He took all the items from the walls and aisles, piling all of them on the counter.

While his father pulled out his wallet to pay, Bruce saw a something move around in a bird cage next to the clerk. It was small and furry with a dark brown color. Its short round ears wiggled as it readjusted its thin wings. He could see small pointy teeth in its mouth as it let out a little screech.

"My goodness Thomas," Martha said grabbing her husband's arm, "What on earth is that hideous thing?"

"Are you telling me you have never seen a bat before?" He asked.

"What's a bat doing in America? Aren't they from Transylvania or something?"

The clerk laughed, "I see you noticed my new pet here. The little bugger flew in a few nights ago while I was closing. I couldn't get him out of here so I set up some dead flies in the bird cage and he flew right in it. It was a rare sight to see a bat in these parts since most bats around here are way up north near Canada. I thought it would bring some customers around here and so far it hasn't worked. If only I can get him a real home."

"I'll take him." Bruce said, "I would actually like him for a pet."

"Brucey, you can't have that thing as a pet!" His mother disagreed, "What if it tries to suck your blood while you're sleeping!"

Thomas laughed, "Martha you're over exaggerating."

"He's right," The clerk said, "From the book I read at the library; it said this one's a small brown bat. They don't eat anything but flying insects like mosquitos, moths, flies, that sort of thing."

"Bruce, do you promise to feed it?"

"Yes, I do. I'll take care of it very well. Please?"

"The boy needs a friend, honey." Thomas whispered to Martha, "He's always talking to himself in his room. Maybe it's time we get him a pet to talk to instead."

"I don't like the idea," his mother grumbled, "having that filthy thing in the house. You better keep it in the cage, Brucey!"

"I will mom."

"They're very easy to take care of," The clerk informed as he took the cage off the stand and handed it to Bruce, "They only need a few flies here and there to keep themselves full and you can just get those from your fly traps. I think the pet store nearby even sells them for people that own frogs. Just remember to clean out the cage once in a while, but since he's so small, maybe once a week."

"Thank you Burt." Bruce said, "I really appreciate this."

"It's nothing. I should thank you since now I don't have to worry about the little fella."

After Thomas paid for the gloves and safety gear, the family left the store, waving goodbye to the clerk.

* * *

><p>Bruce set up the bat's cage on top of his beautifully crafted wooden dresser. He didn't worry about the metal bottom of the cage scratching up the wood since he's already chipped up most of the sides with the door and when he was younger. The bat flapped it's wings as Bruce adjusted the cage to have the door face towards him. Their reflections were clearly visible in the corner of the large mirror attached to the dresser, the wooden outline on the mirror edged with some golden parts to add to it's elegance.<p>

"There we are." Bruce said placing his hands on his knees to keep his balance as he stayed bent forward. "I hope you don't mind this spot. It's the only place to put you really." He stood up straight, walked over to his bed, and sat on it, "You're going to need a name."

Bruce looked over at the old picture of his grandfather, Alfred, that hanged on the wall on the shelf above his bed. He remembered how a few days ago he passed away, the letter still sitting on his parent's night stand. It was by natural causes, but the thought of him not being able to witness the war's end was what caused their sympathy. Alfred was a Great War veteran who just wanted peace to be brought on humanity. When World War 2 started, he wanted to join to help end that one to; only his age stopping him.

"How about Alfred, do you like that name?" He asked the bat.

The bat just hanged upside-down from the cage's top bars, sleeping.

"Okay then, Alfred it is." Bruce smiled happily. He looked towards the window at the city outside.

In Park Row, the tall buildings towered over the night covered streets below. Far away on the other side of town, beaten down apartments and shady corner stores were filled with all sorts of lowlifes. Rusted cars sat on dirty sidewalks with trash and paper scattered about. The only people that went out at night were the desperate and poverty-stricken. Everyone struggling to make ends meet the only way they know how.

Night clubs, bars, betting parlors; all with something to hide. If the law didn't know about it, nothing could stop it. The transfer of money was all too common in low Gotham, most of the time unwanted. People were always mugged behind the dark aisle, sometimes not able to see another day. Fear ran the streets, and it would be fear that would have to control them.

Gotham needed a hero to make the criminals fear for a change. It needed someone who can make the night bearable to live in. Someone who can make a person think twice before they break the law. They must thrive in the night, being able to overcome any adversary. They must be one with the shadows and live in the darkness.

Every criminal will soon know the name that will strike the chill of death into their hearts. The name that everyone will look up to in the search for a greater good. A name that will be remembered forever as the last true hope for society. The last flicker on the flame of progress. Soon, Gotham will hear the name that will save it from it's rotting core.

That name is: Batman.


	2. BLACK MASK

BLACK MASK

The fog outside of The First National Bank of Gotham gave the streets a grey view as the doors were kept open. People came in all the time since it was the biggest bank in the city. Most of the residents in Gotham Heights had accounts here, expect for the Wanye family. They had their money in a different bank that was more protected with the highest security used. In The First National Bank of Gotham, there were a few security guards standing at the doors and before the vault, making sure everything was in order.

The building had a finely made marble exterior with large pillars at the top of wide concrete stairs, a full view of pure white. It had a similar style of any major government building, that almost Greek feel that 1800s America adopted for its governmental architecture. It was located in West End, just a few blocks away from city hall. The small plants and trees in the rectangular gardens in front of the entrance only added to its classiness. Not even the opaque fog could mask its beauty.

Roman stood at the bank teller's booth, the wooden frame holding the protective glass right in front of him. He always kept his hands on the soapstone countertop, ready for any transactions or deposits. He was well known for always being on time and an excellent coworker, the raises in his paychecks showing that very well. Although he didn't live the most luxurious life, he still made enough to own a house on the East End. The struggling life he lived in Park Row as a kid practically forced him to move away from there.

Roman never changed the entire time he's worked there. Everyone who worked with him could always tell who he is from his routine style. Despite being almost 32, he still looked the same when he started. Always with his dirty blonde hair neatly combed and kept short. Always with his beige suit and slacks with the same, never used, handkerchief in the left suit pocket. Always with that forced smile.

When he first started, the smile was real; the excitement of a good paying job making him happy. But after the last five years of the same thing every day, he had to fake it. Get up, go to work, fall asleep, repeat. Every day just always about work. He was practically forced to change banks, just so he doesn't have to go to cash in his checks there. Even on his days off he thought about work. It was the only time he had to clean his suits and get everything ready for the next cycle of working.

He was sick of it. Sick of all the people he had to work with. Sick of all the people that walked in and made him do the same thing every day. He felt trapped in the place, feeling like it was never going to end. Like a horrible nightmare that you can't wake up from, each day just a new monster to run from. He was nothing but a link on a bicycle chain, forced to just go around and around and around.

Today was a different day. It was the day that chain would be broken. After helping a customer with depositing his money and watching him walk out the double doors, he followed. He walked pass all of his fellow tellers who looked at him, their heads trained on him. He walked around and opened the door to the teller booths and casually walked through the open entrance. Roman just simply disappeared down the stairs into the fog.

And that was the last day anyone has heard the name Roman Sionis.

* * *

><p>Park Row felt all too familiar for him. The boarded up buildings and trash filled sidewalks. The brick walls that had the paint chipped up or fading away. Even a few street lights busted, the bulbs shattered from the constant gunfights. As a kid he was used to the sound of gunshots, almost giving his the sense of nostalgia when he thought of them. His childhood was filled with all sorts of sounds. Laughter, the squeaking of swing sets, other kids playing, gunshots, screeching tires, screaming.<p>

All on the same day…

He went home earlier in the day, only to burn his suit in an empty trashcan and change into a black suit. He didn't fit perfectly in it, his father being a little shorter then how Roman is now. The tears on the cuffs from his father's line of work made him fit into the neighborhood, as did the faded out blood stains. They weren't much, but still visible in the right light; the little blotches of discoloration on the front. Roman would of worn his father's other suit, but he had to bury him in it. Plus there were too many holes to even try to wear it.

Roman walked into My Alibi, a very well-known bar on Maple Street. The green shaded overhead lights dimly lit the brown wooden walls and booths. From outside the large glass windows, the bottles behind the bar counter was fully visible to people walking by. If that wasn't enough to get people's attention, the large bright purple "My Alibi" Xenon sign above the tavern hailed its location even on the darkest of nights.

He was in here a lot as a kid, always playing out in front late at night. His mom was a waitress here, and he wasn't allowed inside. He was never afraid of the night, the street lights and the moon keeping him company. It was a lot safer than being alone at home.

The place was filled with smoke and regulars. The bartender behind the counter just looked at him and returned his attention to the beer mug he was wiping. Roman hasn't had a drink since his teen years, the need for alcohol gone forever. He hated drinking. It only held in his feelings and released them later, all that anger and sadness being put on people who didn't deserve it. Plus it made him sound like an idiot until he passed out on the ground, covered with his own bodily waste.

He found a booth at the front and sat in it, keeping his arms and head over the table to see out the window. Only today a waitress asked if he needed anything, with him politely rejecting any food or drink. Sometimes he would get up and talk with people he recognized from his old apartments. He played pool with others to pass the time, even enough to get good at the game. He would stay there until around eight at night, his clock-out time at his job.

He would do that for almost a week. Each day he found a few people interested in his offer, but in the end only three people were needed. Anymore and he wound have to get a second car to fit them all. They all showed up at the meeting place, room 306 in the abandoned apartment. The front door was boarded up, but it was easy to take them off and make it look like the boards were still there. He just had to re-nail it to the door instead of on the frame.

The apartment was on the verge of being uninhabitable. The entire place smelled sweaty and rotten, like day old trash with powdered concrete. Mold grew under the wallpaper near the pipes that still had water running through them. Rats scattered about when the people entered, frightened by the sudden noise and lights. The staircase was missing the railing, making the walk up it a little awkward.

When they entered the door labeled 306, they didn't expect much. The room had almost nothing in it. It was just an overhead light that hanged on its wire with the clicker dangling next to it and a ply wood table with chairs. Roman was waiting in the room for them, sitting in the chair that faced the beaten down door.

Roman motioned them to sit and they followed; the beginning of his leader title. The three new men all wanted the same answer: What did this guy want us to do? As Roman explained, he whipped out a box from between his feet and opened it. He placed the contents on the table: three brand new German lugers and three gas masks from World War 1. There was not a hint of doubt in the three recruits. Roman had asked all the right questions in the right places during the past week and knew exactly how these guys were. They knew how to use a gun and didn't bat an eye if they killed.

Roman took out his own gear: A black painted gas mask and a scratched up Thompson submachine gun with a drum magazine. The wooden butt stock was chipped up and the barrel held deep scratches, the thin silver lines against the black. The magazine had a few bullet holes in the front, but that didn't matter much. He wasn't worried about dirt entering the drum since he's in the city. And the only dirt he planned on getting near is six feet underground.

* * *

><p>It was a pretty slow day in the small bank on East End. The two female tellers behind the counter were used to it. There weren't any guards, but keeping the door closed made them more relaxed. The loud creaking noise when someone opened it gave enough of a tell that someone was walking in. It was not every day, but people did come in.<p>

The age in the hard ruff brick exterior showed in the missing bricks and scrapped bottoms. The bad weather over the years had taken off most of the paint from when it opened, and faded out the rest. It wasn't that the owner of the bank didn't want to make repairs and maintenance, it's because they couldn't. It would cost too much to fix it up and unless it was a hazard, the bank would have to stay how it is.

The two tellers were in the middle of a conversation about what they did the night before when suddenly the door exploded open. The wood smashed into the side wall, digging in to the asepsis. Four armed robbers rushed in wearing gas masks to hide their faces and normal black dress suits. One of the robbers stood out from the rest, with his mask black and a submachine gun, unlike the other three who had pistols. They held duffle bags in their free hands, flattened up and empty.

"Don't move! Keep your hands up!" The one with the black mask ordered, aiming his Thompson at their heads. His voice was muffled by the mask, but still clear enough to understand what the man said. He looked over at his accomplices, "Get the money in the bags."

They hurried over to the vault and started stuffing money in the bags after opening it up. As they shoveled the cash, the tellers whimpered in fear. Black Mask could easily see the tears welling up in their eyes from the thought of dying today. They tried to make a plea for mercy, but they couldn't get the words out penetrably. The fright in their stomachs was just too overwhelming.

"It's okay," Black Mask said calmly, but quickly returned to aggressive, "Just keep those hands up! Don't make me shoot you!"

"That's as much as we can fit, Chief!" One of the thugs called out from the front of the vault, the mask fogging up his announcement, "Let's scram!"

The four robbers scurried to the getaway car on the sidewalk outside; the trunk and the two doors facing the bank kept wide open for easy entry. They tossed two duffle bags into the trunk and the third in the back seat. The robbers were about to pile into the car when someone started shouting.

A patrolling cop was a few buildings away on the same street, blowing his whistle. "Freeze!" He shouted, "Drop the guns!"

Seeing they were still trying to get away, he opened fire. The rounds from his .38 shattered the back window of the car and the robbers returned fire. They exchanged bullets, filling the street with gunfire and lead. The shots rang out in the air, drowning out the shouting and yelling. Some sirens could be heard in the next street over, but it was too late.

The cop lay on the ground, his gun flung away from the bullet that hit his hand. Four large holes in his chest were more than enough to take him down. Six bullet shells joined him on the ground, spent and still smoking from their resent ignition. Black Mask almost had to look away from the scrawled body on the concrete sidewalk. He didn't have time to push back the memories.

As the car sped away from bank's front, a cop car was hot on their tail. They went far past the speed limit and passed red lights on their attempt to lose the heat. Other cars trying to cross the intersection were forced to stop in order to avoid a collision with the two cars passing at high speeds. The police officer in the passenger seat stuck his body out the window and shot at the back tires, trying to take them out. Sparks flew from the metal smacking asphalt as they whizzed around the rubber wheels, almost hitting their marks.

Black Mask was in back seat when he popped his head out the window, his beaten up Thompson in hand. He held the submachine gun up to his shoulder and filled the road with fully automatic fire. The bucks from the shots made him vibrate and had the barrel sway violently, but the amount of rounds flying at the target made up for it. The police car filled with .45 rounds, the circular holes forming at the hood of the car and heading up to the windshield. Bullets tore through the metal, ripping up wires and tubes under the hood. The front tires even took damage, the bullets piercing the steel wheel covers to reach the rubber.

The two cops inside the car didn't have a chance. The passenger was flung back as bullets entered his chest, his gun flying from his hand. His body hung limp over the car door while the driver's face was filled with lead. The horn sounded, the driver's head slumped on the steering wheel. The cop car took an unplanned sharp turn to the right, flipping the entire thing over. The tire marks streaked against the road as the dead passenger was tossed out of the vehicle. It tumbled and crashed on the road with nothing but a crushed up metal husk remaining.

The trail of black and white wreckage descended from the robber's view, the car speeding down a small hill as they made their escape. Roman tried to hold it in, but he couldn't contain himself. His laughter came out in a muffed cackle, deep and powerful. The other robbers' laughed along with him, but not for the same reason. While the thugs laughed from relief, Roman laughed from sheer terror. The kind of fright that he will have to get used to for the next few weeks.

Every newspaper in Gotham had the same front page: **Black Mask strikes again!** Top story from every reporter, the Black Mask scoop was the biggest hit. Nearly every two day for three weeks a different place was robbed. First a small time bank, then a grocery store, then a pawn shop, then another bank. Tailors, hotels, high rise restaurants, department stores; no establishment was safe from being robbed.

Like a bolt of lightning, the Black Mask gang came in and out like a flash, taking as much money as they can. So far, ten police officers have fallen in the line of duty trying to apprehend them. Every successful business is now on the edge, even closing earlier in fear of the Black Mask. His gang has only struck during the day, between 12:00p.m. and 8:00p.m. Some places even considered being open only at night to avoid being robbed.

* * *

><p>Roman's living room was quiet as always. The only noise noticeable was the sound of the sink in the kitchen on, his wife doing the dishes after dinner. The lights inside the house hid the darkness that covered the night outside, the small electric lamps scattered about the room all working to illuminate the place.<p>

Roman couldn't read the paper now as he sat in his comfortable living room chair. The leather screeched from him sitting back up to smack the newspaper on the coffee table next to his legs. He rubbed the sides of his face, the thick stubble around his jaw prickling his fingers. His eyes stung every time he closed them, the lack of sleep doing its work. Trying to rub out the discomfort in his bloodshot eyes, he let out a heavy sigh.

He looked over the pictures of him and his family to the left, the frames resting on the empty middle section of the book shelf. His beautiful wife with her wavy blonde hair and loving face and his adorable little girl. His little princess still had her hair long and curly during her resent seventh birthday party photo. He's stared at the pictures long enough to have the images burned behind his retinas every night, the blurred figures appearing every time he blinked. Every time he regretted.

His entire body ached in sharp throbs. His ankles stung from not taking his socks off in forever and his right shoulder felt sore enough to make him want to get rid of it. His back felt weak from being slumped in his chair all day, his weight concentrated on the middle of his backbone. His neck was stiff; the need for cracking it always with him, but it never took the stiffness away.

The suit he'd been wearing for the past three weeks begged him to be washed. The filth and grime layered it in an unnoticeable coat of revolting stains. The black coloring hid the fresh blood stains and gunpowder specks. Dried up sweat hardened the wrist and collar, almost crunching went he moved. He got used to the smell in the first week, even if no one else did.

The phone started ringing. Roman didn't want to answer it, but he had to. The guys he's been working with weren't the smarts apples, and being in the phone book didn't help. He walked up to the stand holding the phone and picked it up, the receiver clicking.

"Hello?" He barely said. His voice was raspy and quiet from dehydration and exhaustion. He didn't eat like he used to either, his wife even stopped putting down his dinner plate, knowing he didn't want any.

"Do you remember me?" The voice said on the other line. Roman recognized the man, but wish he didn't. Carmine Falcone sounded the same as he did those years back, upbeat and vibrant as always. Roman wanted to vomit in disgust. Half from hunger and half from emotion.

"Yes." Roman let out, a soft whistling answer that was almost pure air. His face displayed his anger.

"The reason why I called is that I just got done with reading the newspaper and I just couldn't help but remember little Roman. I'm pretty sure you're not so little anymore though. How long has it been, 20, 25 years? You must be big Roman now." Carmine gave out a short chuckle, "Anyway, someone told me about your job, I think you're work hours are twelve to eight. That's an awful long time for such chump change. Now I know our past wasn't the best of times, but what would you say if I offered you a job working for me. Your figures speak for yourself and with you under my wing, we can become something bigger. The both of us will win, Roman, ya hear me? Win. Everything will be ours to have. What do you say?"

Roman smashed the phone on the dialer, knocking the phone into the wall. The phone buzzed rapidly as his wife rushed in from the loud crash. She came in from the kitchen with her mouth open, seeing her husband huffing furiously. Roman took his eyes from the broken phone and looked up at Sabrina.

"Are you okay?" Sabrina asked, her voice with concern. She held her hand in front of her chest after taking it off the wall. The long skirt she wore fluttered from the short run, the color matching her checkered white and blue blouse.

Roman just looked at her, his mouth bunched up. She could clearly see the reaching veins in his eyes as she got closer, his eyes almost completely red. Roman's mouth moved from the inside, the feeling of him about to say something given to Sabrina, but his lips didn't move.

"I just put her to bed." She said, referring to their daughter, "I hope the commotion didn't scare her." Sabrina looked down at the wedding ring on her finger, "Roman…" She tried to find the right words as she sighed, "Why haven't you been going to work? I just met your boss's wife at the store the other day and she said that they haven't heard from you in forever. What's going on Roman?" Her lip quivered when she stopped talking, the anticipation building up within her.

Roman couldn't answer. No matter what he said, it wouldn't change anything. She knew too much already. Anything he said would just make her angry, having enough arguments over the years to be sure of it. He could only look down in shame. His eyes rose up slightly for him to look at her, his eyes visibly showing the sadness welling inside him.

"What is going on Roman?" His wife coughed out a cry as her face reddened with sadness. She started hyperventilating slightly, "Why did you stop working? Are you hiding something from me? You haven't been eating, you never go to bed. Every day when you come home I only see you sitting in that chair just staring into space." She sniffed as the tears rolled down her face over her mouth, "Even our little princess is worried. Every day she comes crying to me saying, 'how come daddy doesn't want to play with me?' What am I supposed to answer?" She held her head in her hand supported on her stomach and cried, the sharp inhales followed by little sniffs.

Roman held his wife, his lip starting to quiver. He held her tight, wanting to never let go. Her soft skin felt comforting against his aching hands. His eyes started to well up from his wife's depression, her crying soft next to his ear. A bump started to pile in his throat, making swallowing painful. His legs felt weak, almost needing to lean on his wife to stay standing.

Sabrina's nails almost clawed the back of his ribs. Her neck rhythmically jolted from her coughs of sorrow, her chin bumping his back every time. A crackling groan escaped her voice, the lump in her throat trying to flatten. A high pitched whine quietly rang out from her mouth, the air trying to force itself out of her lungs.

Roman wanted to hold her forever, to stay standing here until she was happy again. But he couldn't. He had to leave. "I'll be back." He whispered to her.

He moved a little back to give Sabrina a kiss. The tears rolling over her lips entered his mouth, absorbing into his dry tongue. The taste of sour salt was forgiving, diluted from the pleasuring kiss. She rested her head against his face, her tears rubbing against his skin. Roman gently took her arms away from him and slogged towards the front door, his eyes focused on the ground.

"Roman, please think of your family. Please think of your little princess."

The word "princess" made tears escape from his eyes. He couldn't hold his sorrow in anymore. The dam of dignity crumbled against the ocean of regret. On his way out the door, he entered his daughter's room. The door let out a long low creak, the light from the hallway widening into the dark room.

She woke up from him sitting on the bed, springs squeaking. "Daddy," She yawned, "What's going on?"

The tears on Roman's face dropped onto her covers. She could see little shining bits from the wet lines created from the hallway lights. The shadow over her father's face hid him repeatedly mouthing the words: I'm sorry. All she could hear was the "s" hissing out a little each time.

"Daddy, why are you crying? Is something wrong?"

Roman lifted her back and held her. He started letting out a deep voiced whimpering, the sharp breathes shaking his daughter in place. The pain in his stomach rolled about, drowning out all of his other aches. She even started crying too, despite not knowing what was going on. He wished he didn't make her sad, but he wanted to hold her for one last time.

It felt like forever, but eventually he gave her a kiss on the cheek and laid her back down to sleep. He rubbed her blonde hair back to see her beautiful face for one last time. Her innocent face crunched up in sadness. Roman wanted to sit here and comfort her until she fell back asleep, but he couldn't. He had to leave.

The night air crept in from outside as he opened the front door. He looked back to see his wife staring at him, her hand over her mouth. She turned away, shutting her eyes and headed back into the kitchen. Roman wiped his nose with his sleeve and quietly closed the door behind him, leaving the house for one last time.

_(AN: I would like to hear if anyone cried while reading the last half of the chapter. If you didn't then consider yourself better than I am at keeping yourself together. I'm not going to lie, I freaking cried like a little baby while I wrote it. Plus if anyone can help me make the details of the environment better or give help make the last scene less repetitive in "Sad" words, let me know. Thank you for reading._

_P.S. If you want to be even more sad after, listen to the song "9th circle" by the band H.I.M. It was kind of the inspiration.)_


	3. PT1 The Roman Empire

(A/N: To add to the tone, you as a reader will be given a notice to change the display of the web page at certain times. When you see the [DARK] sign, it means to change the page from a white background with black text to a black background with white text. If you don't know how to do that, just click on "dark" that is near the circle that is half white and half black up near the other options that change the font and length of lines. When the story returns to day time, the sign will be [LIGHT] for you to return the page to default. It might be a bit out of the way since you will have to return to the top of the page to do it while getting away from the actual part you're reading, but just remember it's only to get more of a feel for the environment and enjoy the story to its fullest. Thank you for reading.)

The basement light swung as Martha pulled the bead chain to click it on. Thomas and Bruce wore boxing shorts with an undershirt, the boxing gloves already in their hands. They stood on the laid out padding floor, a preferred substitute than the concrete. The bulb gave plenty of light to see, with the open door at the top of the stairs helping. It would have been enough with the little windows near the bottom of the house, but the midday sun was covered with scarce clouds.

"Be careful with him." Martha said a little worried, "Don't be rough."

"Don't worry honey, I'm just going to show him the ropes first." Thomas assured. "Okay, now here are the rules. If it's not in the glove, don't use it to fight. Kicking and elbowing are nice to use, but they are against the rules. Also never hit a man below the belt." He pointed to Bruce's lower body, "See where the top of your shorts are? Anywhere below that is out of bounds."

"I'll just wear my shorts high up then," Bruce said pulling his shorts up to his ribs.

Thomas laughed, "You know what I mean. It's okay to hit in the chest, just not past the hips. Now with that out of the way, let's get you into a stance." He got his fist up in the upright fighting stance, with his left hand past his right. "All right son, first you got to get in position, like this."

Bruce looked down at his feet and spread them out, hunched his shoulders up, and copied his father's fist placement.

"Good, that's perfect. Just make sure to lean your body to have your lead side forward like me." He jabbed his left hand as he talked, "See, the hand you're going to use to fight is in back. Then in the front here is the one you mostly defend with. Just use which hand you think is weaker to lead with."

Bruce looked at his gloved hands and punched forward a few times with each. His right hand felt faster, so he leaned back with that side in behind his left.

"Good, see you're getting the hang of it fast. It's going to be easy to learn since you're not a southpaw.

"What's a southpaw?" Bruce asked.

"That's when you fight left-handed. Most of the time your style is based on your writing hand, but some people use southpaw to throw off their opponent."

"Should I switch from this to southpaw then?"

"You can, but it'll be awkward. Just focus on one stance. All right, now first kind of punch is the jab." He bent his elbow down then flung his fist forward, "It's quick and is hard to counter, but won't knock anyone down unless it hits right. Then you got your hook," His elbow bent slightly with it facing the wall as he swung his arm to the left, "I never use them, but they can get you in the jaw if you can get past the guy's hand. They are two slow and leave you too open, so only use them at the right time." Thomas slapped his gloves together, "You following so far?"

Bruce punched forward, "Jab..." then swung his arm, "hook. Right?"

"Right. See Martha, he's a natural!"

Martha shook her head, "Just use it for fun Brucey. Don't try to start fights with strangers."

"I won't mom."

"That's right, he's too good to start a fight. One look at him and they'll be running for the hills." Thomas smiled, "Okay, now you got the real kicker, the uppercut." He punched upwards with his body trailing its movement to give it full force, "That's the one that you use to finish them off. It his them under the chin and leaves them open for anything."

Bruce practiced the move, but only swung his arm up. "Like that?"

"No, you have to move your body. That way the force is coming from your chest instead of just your arm. It's okay, that one's not important right now. Let's see, what am I forgetting?" He stopped to think, "Oh right, defense." He put his hands over his face to hide it behind the red gloves and tucked his chin down, "Remember to keep your chin down when you block to prevent an uppercut from getting you. But don't go on the defense for too long since they'll try to corner you and you'll be in a bad spot. Also make sure to tuck your elbows in to protect your stomach," He reached out and tapped Bruce's abdomen, making him flinch.

"Thomas, you're getting too rough with him!" Martha protested.

"Honey, I only tapped him. I'll sure he'll live." He joked, "Okay come on son, let's practice your moves a little." Thomas said tapping his son's gloves with his. "Here honey you be the referee."

The two of them started hopping around on the padded floor, the muffled thump of their feet rhythmically sounding. Thomas bopped Bruce on the nose with a quick jab repeatedly, trying to get his son to get his gloves in front of his face. Bruce started to block with his left hand and sent a slow straight punched with his right. The glove was deflected by his father's, countered quickly with a combo of taps on the sides of his head.

"Come on, try to get me." His father taunted.

Bruce started tapping the sides of his dad's chest, tickling his ribs. Thomas couldn't help but lose concentration and letting his arms down. Continuing the onslaught, Bruce stared tapping his head and cheeks, not letting his father get a chance to defend himself. Thomas let out a playful shout as he jumped on Bruce, the two falling to the ground.

"So you like to tickle huh?" His dad said taking off his shoe. Still with his gloves on, Thomas rubbed his hand against the bottom of Bruce's foot, making him laugh uncontrollably.

Bruce banged his hand against the padding and shook his other leg wildly, "Mom, stop him!" He pleaded through gasps. Thomas laughed evilly as held his son down to tickle his foot.

"I'll stop him!" Martha said running up to Thomas and wiggled her fingers against his ribs. Thomas let go of Bruce and fell to the ground, his wife following his descent.

"No! You're a ref, you can't do that!" He cried out, the tickling overpowering him. Once Martha stopped he sat up and sighed happily, "Okay, that's enough training for today. I'm not sure, but I think tickling is against the rules in a real fight."

At the dinner table, Thomas read the newspaper while he ate. In the morning he had to take care of his factories to make sure everything was in order and to check if the machines were in proper condition. He usually was in the house, but still wanted to make sure there weren't going to be accidents in his enterprise. If anything happened to his factories or workers, that means more funds to repair and less to make.

Martha was dressed up for one of her friend's baby showers. She would be the first to go to the baby showers of anyone she knew; always imagining that it was her son's shower she was attending. Her long earring dangled as she leaned to sip her soup. Like always she would get in her clothes before she ate but put on her makeup after, a ritual that Thomas would question in the past.

"This is a wonderful dinner." Edward said sitting between Bruce and his father, in a similar white suit from the day before.

"Thank you," Martha accepted, "Our chef used to have his own Italian restaurant for a few years. Remember that place dear?"

"Angelino's." Thomas said after drinking some coffee, "He made amazing lasagna. Oh, just beautiful." The four of them laughed from Thomas's overdone reaction as he flipped the newspaper over. "Oh for crying out loud!"

"What is it dear?" Martha asked.

"That's all I see in the paper. Black Mask, Black Mask, Black Mask! If I didn't know better, I'd say he owned the news printer."

"I'm surprised he's in the paper a'tall," Edward remarked, "I heard he was nothing but a hoax. Just something that the papers made up to use as an eye grabber. They do that sometimes when nothing is going on. With the war over and all, it's expected."

"I'll just stick with the funnies then," Thomas said flipping over to the comics section.

"Well if he does exist," Martha commented, "I expect him to stay in Park Row. I haven't heard of him getting near Gotham Heights and I hope I never do. Such a terrible person to steal from so many people for so long, just wrecking their lives for money. He just takes the hard earned money from honest workers in a blink of an eye and just does it again like it's nothing. If the police find him, I hope they lock him up forever." She looked at the grandfather clock near the double doors, "Oh goodness me! I should start getting ready." She continued talking as she hurried out, "That Black Mask is even going to make me late with all of his horrible shenanigans, good gracious!"

Thomas watched her leave, chuckling. "You know for me, I'd rather they give him the chair." he suggested. He grabbed the arms of his chair and imitated getting electrocuted, rolling back his eyes and let out a fake yell. The others laughed at his role-playing, letting the rest of the dinner carry itself by.

In his room, Bruce scuffled around to find his clothes. The moon outside the large glass windows was large and bright. Small black and grey marks were plainly visible on the white moon with dusky clouds swimming by. A few stars floated in the night sky, giving the moon company. He couldn't see it from his room because of the desk lamp illuminating the room, helping him in his search through the large closet.

"I know it's here Alfred," He said to the bat, "It's just hiding in the back." He reached through the hanging suits and shirts, his fingers touched a coat at the top of a pile behind them. "Ah ha! I found it!" Hauling it out, the long black coat swung over his head with it draping onto his head. He pulled it down hand over hand until the collar was between his fingers.

The coat was rarely used since he got a newer one shortly after, but still fit him well. He put it on and buttoned up, then flipped the large collar to have it cover the back of his neck. The black fedora on his desk was put on next, the bat flapping its arms from Bruce's arm getting close to its cage. Bruce adjusted it so the brim hung a bit over his eyes.

His father's gun holster lay on the bed, the bullet loops on the belt blackened from the bullet shells scraping against the inside. He took it from the attic since his father gave up hunting after the accident, confident that it wouldn't be missed. Taking the .45 caliber bullets from a previously opened ammo box his father used in his hunting days, Bruce filled up two magazines and inserted one in each of the bullet loops on the belt.

In a cushioned gun case, Bruce took out the Colt 1911 inside the groove and slipped one of the full magazines in. It was the very gun his grandfather used during the war, keeping it as a memento. He stuck it into the holster and secured it by clicking the flap closed. Taking the spare magazine, he placed it into one of the coat pockets, making sure it was deep inside.

He looked at himself in the mirror and focused on his face, rubbing his jaw, "They'll know who I am, won't they Alfred? I need something to cover it." He swung his eyes around the room in search of something to hide his identity. On the coat rack next to the door, he saw a long dark blue scarf hung over one of the arms. "Perfect."

He wrapped the scarf around his face, the fabric covering his mouth and chin. Crossing the ends and making sure it was secured tight, he turned off the lamp. The bright full moon cast looming shadows all about his room as Bruce made his way to the window.

"Wish me luck Alfred."

* * *

><p>[DARK]<p>

In East End, steam escaped from the manhole coverings in the middle of the street. The yellow hue given from the street lights outmatched the bright moon above. The giant globe like bulbs on the street lights hummed quietly from the current within. Both edges of the sidewalks were littered with cars, mailboxes, bus benches, and fire hydrants. Small metal fences pushed in the small steps to the entrances for dozens of apartments. The lights in the windows were dimmed from some of the rooms, covered by the shades.

Bruce walked with his hands tucked in his coat, keeping his eyes open for any activity. Between the apartments, a few cats were gathered around the metal trashcans, eating their fill of freshly thrown out food within the rest of the waste. Farther in the alleyways, a few homeless people held their hands out before a newspaper fire inside a trashcan. Bruce didn't even notice their presence. They were hidden behind the darkness superimposing the alleyways.

It was late in the night, the clock tower of the church nearby striking ten rings. Over half of the churches in Gotham City were here in Park Row, the much needed sanctuaries unending the faith in the questioning citizens struggling in the cramped hunkering apartments. A flock of pidgins flew across over the roof tops from a loud noise, the flapping of their wings quick with caution.

A car blasted through the street with sparks following it close by. The scrapping of the bare metal wheel against asphalt screeched loudly through the night air. Bruce faced the noisy vehicle's direction, having to side step away from its wide turn; the car sending trashcans to a clattering tumble. The tire marks were clean in the street light's golden color, the thick black lines with chucks of tire mixed in.

When the car sped by, Bruce was able to notice one of the four people inside holding a large gun, something far bigger than a measly pistol. There was no doubt who they were. Gotham's most wanted right there, practically handed to him. He had to stop them. He had to stop the robberies.

Without skipping a beat, he raced after it, following the trail of dark marks to his first encounter.

Room 306 was as full of life as it would ever get. Stringy spider webs flooded the ceiling's corners, dust gathering everywhere else. Beer bottles flooded the wood floor, never cleaned up for the three weeks they've live in the room each night. That was one of the two things they used to survive each night: alcohol and cigars.

The overhead light swung on it wire like a pendulum, trading the light with the two sides of the room. Black Mask clutched a hand on the shade, stopping its momentum. Cigar smoke slithered up to the ceiling around the plywood table as the three goons played cards in a triangle.

"How many cards you want Joe?" One of them asked.

"Let's see," He held his cards out a little to see them better, "I'll take two."

The dealer slid two cards to Joe who flipped them into his hand. "Hey, Bob, what's the big idea here? You gave me a joker!" He plucked the card from his hand and tossed it at Bob's face.

"How was I supposed to know it was there?" Bob defended, "Why would they put a card in the deck that doesn't belong?"

"It's so the card companies can screw us over." Al said, taking the cigar out of his mouth between his index and middle finger, "They put in all those wasted things in the box and they charge for the paper. It adds a few cents to the price but when they sell all over the place it adds up big!"

While the three continued their poker game, Black Mask sat in a chair off to the corner. He was near the window, the blinds making slits of shadow and light over his face. The open window faced the space behind the apartment building, the rusted fire escape right outside. That's all anyone could see from the window, that and the backs of the other vacant apartments surrounding it. A full view of aging bricks and decaying metal.

The moonlight was bright enough to illuminate the dark corner he sat in, him being far away from the room's light. He held a single piece of paper, reading the words filling the page. Hundreds of folds bent the paper in all directions, dirt and ink smearing the edges of each crease. The others knew not to bother him as he read and wrote on that paper. Bob made that mistake once, and he nearly lost his arm for it.

He read with his gas mask on, the yellow eye coverings shading his vision. They never saw his face after the first day they met him. They even forgot how he looked and how he sounded. All they could see was those yellow ovals staring at them accompanied by a deep soulless growl of a voice. Sometimes they even joked about how Black Mask wasn't even under the mask and suit anymore, how now it's just a ghost of some sort. But it was more of a worry then a joke.

It was a quick finish this time, Black Mask usually taking a long time scribbling on the paper. After folding it back up and inching it into his suit pocket, he got up. His employees saw him moving, knowing they were in the clear to talk to him again. Black Mask grabbed his Thompson from it's lean against the wall. From under the leather, they could hear Black Mask clear his throat.

* * *

><p>From outside, Bruce had just finished scaling the ladders and stairs up the fire escape. Once he reached the one lit window he kept close to the side. The 1911 colt .45 shined from the bright night sky, held firm in his right hand. He could see the shadows of the people inside casting against the wall near the window. The silhouettes sat at a table, all of them connected by one curvy line filled with black.<p>

"All right boys, I got some news for all of you." A fourth figure started, walking up to the table. His voice was nothing but a warped, twisted substitute for a real one; breathless and aggressive. He held his body up with his arms straight, keeping his fist clenched on the table as he leaned forward. "A new shipment is going to be delivered, so I want all of you to get a least five guys to tag along. You hear me? No less then five. If you can get more, perfect. Any less and say goodbye to your payroll. I'm paying Penguin for twenty guns and they're all going to be used, whether it's on them or I use it on one of you guys. Understood?"

The three all agreed, nodding there heads and filling the air with sure and yeah.

"Say boss, you wanna join the card game here?" Al asked.

Black Mask took a while to answer, "Just one game." He stated simply. He set his Thompson on the table and started bringing his chair to the table.

"Hey, wait a minute." Bob said as Black Mask settled in, "He can't play with that mask on! How are we supposed to know he's bluffing? Come on boss, you can take that thing off for a little bit, can't ya?"

Bob reached out, his hand only getting close to the mask. Nearly instantly, Black Mask got Bob's arm twisted behind his back and slammed him onto the wobbling table. The poker chips rattled, spreading out from their neat stacks. Black Mask swiped up his Thompson and jammed the barrel against the back of Bob's head.

"Whoa, chief!" Joe protested, "Come on, he didn't mean nothing of it! You know Bob, he was just fooling around here!"

Black Mask turned to Joe, then back to Bob. With the hand holding Bob's arm down, he slid him off the table to the floor; Bob landing shaking the overhead light. With his right leg, Black Mask flipped the table over and kicked it across the room, the other two standing up to get out of the way. It wasn't the first time something like that happened, but they always hoped it was the last. It never was.

The table clattered against the bare wood flooring, the cards fluttering as the chips jingled. One of the table legs collided with the hanging light, popping the bulb into a shimmer of glass. The light's wire squeaked as the four robbers could see the shadow of a man right outside the room, crouched over with a gun in his hand.

"Look, over there!" Joe shouted, "There's a guy on the fire escape!"

"Blast him!" Black Mask ordered.

Bruce's heart bungeed inside his chest, his fingers stuttering about. Without thinking he swung his arm through the window, only his right eye peeking through the brick wall. He aimed at the one lying on the ground struggling to get his gun out and pulled the trigger. The flash from the round firing lit up the dark room, the smoke sizzling out from the barrel. Bob fell limp, his gun not even leaving it's holster.

The other three started their onslaught of gunfire, a symphony of fully automatic and Luger P08 barks. Bruce took cover behind the wall, protected by a thick layer of brick and mortar. He lost his footing a little from the sudden momentum, clutching onto the sill before getting to far over the rail. He looked down, the pitch black abyss of asphalt waiting for him to dive right in.

The water stained wall paper filled with bullet holes on the inside, while the rest of the bullets continued out into the surrounding apartments. Bruce could hear and feel the rounds ricocheting off the metal pipe stairs behind him. He could even feel the impact of the rounds through the brick wall between him and the robbers, almost a warming sensation from the heated lead digging there way in.

"I ain't getting taking to the big house yet!" Joe shouted, stopping to high tail it out of the room, "You hear me copper! You ain't catching us yet!"

The three robbers sprinted out of the room, their shoes thudding quickly; creaking the floor boards. An inner fire splashed inside Bruce's face, his feet tapping in place to pursuit. He peeked past the window to see the only one wearing a mask being the last one out the door. Vaulting through the window, Bruce chased after. Determination to end this was the only thing moving his feet.

The hallway was dark, but still visible. The full moon illuminated with long stretching shadows confined in the narrow corridor. Joe ran faster then his feet could touch the floor. He started to stumble when he got close to the stair case going down, the one going up in a parallel line with it. In his frantic flailing, he forgot there wasn't a railing on the first set of stairs. Trying to support himself on air, Joe fell forward into the weakened wooden steps. Though the water damage, termites, and age, the wood gave in from his sudden impact. It folded around him like a deck of cards.

Al and Black Mask heard the loud clatter of wood clanking against on another. They stopped at the stair's mouth to see them gone, a giant pile of splintered planks and dust filling the first floor. Joe was in that pile, one of the broken 2x4s staying perfectly straight up. His chest covered the plank, only the jagged point sticking out of his back. He didn't budge.

Darkness covered Black Mask's head, only his suit visible in the dark night light. "Up to the roof," he ordered Al, "Well loose him outside."

Al followed his leader up the remaining staircases, keeping an eye on their trail. Bruce was right behind them, just passing the broken staircase. He heard the robbers feet pounding upwards, so he followed. The staircase upwards was a tunnel with the only light coming from the open windows on the floors adjacent to them.

The two remaining robbers were near the roof's entrance door when Bruce opened fire. Al shot back as Black Mask opened the door. Bruce took cover in of the hallways, dodging the incoming fire. The door slammed open from Black Mask plowing into it, the rust making it too stiff to open normally. Bruce took advantage of the opportunity.

Reentering the stairway, he saw the robbers heading out. He shot right at them, trying to aim at the silhouettes created from the opened doorway. Al tried to shoot back, but Black Mask grabbed the back of his suit and held Al in front of himself. The shockwave from the two bullets impacting Al traveled up his arm. With only his hand allowing Al to stand upright, Black Mask propelled Al's cooling down body in Bruce's direction.

Bruce hugged the wall, avoiding contact with the rolling body. Al tumbled and crashed all the way down the stairway, nearly distracting Bruce from the escaping criminal. Black Mask's shadow was still visible past the open door to the roof, the black spot bouncing. He climbed the steps into the night air.

The roof was covered in low fog when Bruce released himself from the apartments. The street lights below reflected the stars above, little obscured beacons through the dense night. Bruce searched for a sign of Black Mask, but only saw the grey shroud. Police sirens wailed in the far off distance, but drowned out from a burst of gunfire. A black gas mask appeared rapidly from the quick flashes, emotionless and dead.

The bullets etched into the concrete rooftop, Bruce diving out of the way. He smacked into a brick chimney, Black Mask getting a glimpse of his new position. Between a break in the hail of lead, Bruce managed to get his arm out to aim. He pulled the trigger twice, but all he got was a hollow hammer pull. He returned to his cover to reload, taking out the empty clip and inserting the fresh spare. Right after, he put the gun in the holster.

Another long burst of gunfire chiseled away at the right side of Bruce's cover, the sharp brick fragments flying in all directions. Then suddenly, an empty click. Black Mask tossed the empty drum magazine aside, the metal scrapping against the concrete. Getting a normal 30 round magazine from his pocket, he was ready to continue the wall of lead. He gave a quick glance to still see the edge of a black coat behind the chimney. Once he entered a bullet in the chamber, something smacked the gun out of his hand.

The Thompson spun around on the rooftop, the barrel bumping into the low ledge. Bruce, without his coat, used his other hand to uppercut Black Mask in the stomach.

_POW! _

Black Mask blocked the second attack with his forearms, but Bruce followed through with a hook to the mask.

_CRACK!_

His fist broke the left glass eye covering, the fragments falling to the ground. A visible cut was seen from under the metal eye outline of the mask, the glass breaking the skin. Black Mask stumbled back from the blow. Bruce was about to deliver a straight to the robber's nose, but Black Mask's foot swung in between Bruce's legs.

_OOF!_

Bruce fell on his back, the pain spreading from his groin. The cheap shot allowed Black Mask enough time to retrieve his Tommy Gun. Spinning around, he rushed over to the ledge to swipe it from the rooftop. Bruce reached into his coat for his Colt as Black Mask ran. Bruce got to his gun before Black Mask got to his.

Two flashes from the gunshots lit the rooftop like lightning strikes. As one bullet flew into the sky, the other entered Black Mask's back. His spine straightened out in pain, turning around with the Thompson in his right hand. Bruce fired a third time, the bullet digging into Black Mask's left shoulder. It didn't seem to faze him.

The Thompson shook in his hand, the bullet holes aggravating his nervous system. He slowly lifted the gun and aimed downwards, struggling to keep his feet in place. He mostly seemed to bend his back then move his arm to lift the submachine gun. His finger fought to squeeze the trigger, the strength draining from his body.

With the sight centered at the robber's torso, Bruce fired one last time. Black Mask stumbled back, dropping the gun. His feet staggered, scrapping more then stepping. Deep heavy breaths pushed from under the mask, followed by wet coughing. The edge of the roof was right behind his feet, his heels resting on the ledge.

"I…refuse…to…die." He forced between wheezing breaths.

Black Mask collapsed backwards, the dark abyss accepting him in. His plummet to earth was cut short, the top of the fire escape catching him. The rusting metal creaked and groaned loudly, like a giant monster devouring a meal. The supports gave in as the stairs folding over. The ladders came loose from the whole entire fire escape coming down.

Most of the nuts and bolts popped out of the brick that kept the thing upright. The top crashed into the lower section, creating a domino effect of each floor smashing onto the lower. The black gas mask rested a few feet from the large twisted pile of bend metal; the right eye covering shattered to match the left one. In the settling dust, only an arm was visibly hanging out from the fire escape's remains.

By the time Black Mask reached the ground, Bruce had taken his coat he hung from the nail hammered in the chimney; the nail put there long ago from when the structure contained life. He hopped onto the neighboring rooftop to escape from there. The police sirens neared to the scene, the red lights spinning on the streets below. But all they will find are four dead robbers, and nothing but spent shells to reveal the form of death.


	4. PT2 The Smoking Gun

Rain.

The endless drops poured from the sky in a standing ovation all throughout the night. It was the only noise in Bruce's room. Even the ticking of the clock on his nightstand was overpowered by the loud splashing. Outside the wide balcony was nothing but dark, grey clouds. Even the smell of rain water started to seep in.

The objects in the room cast the shadows, the silhouettes fighting. They spun with the ceiling, exchanging blows. One tried to run, shrinking in size. The larger silhouette held a pistol out and fired. And again. And again.

And again!

Each bolt of lightning was another shot, each one louder then the last. In an instant, every shadow dissipated into wafting smoke.

But one returned.

For the rest of the night, Alfred's shadow was the only thing shown on the ceiling, the bat's wings and pointy ears morphed as one. His wings flapped in fright from the lightening, but the shadow didn't move. The stretched out blot of darkness wasn't even on the ceiling. There was only one place where it existed.

Bruce laid in his bed, still in his suit from the night before. Scrapes finished scabbing over on his knees and forearms. His feet throbbed in beats of ache, the strain of running catching up to him. A few cuts around his fingers and palms itched from the sweat drying over them. A large bruise on his left bisect pained if he moved his arm, nearly forcing him to lie still.

But that wasn't the only reason he didn't move.

It was a demon. Some kind of vile fiend eating away inside him. He wasn't hungry, yet his stomach yearned for rest. His mind was pitch black, no thoughts or images appearing. Something seemed to trickle deep within his throat, clogging up when he swallowed.

Pain flowed slowly inside his muscles as he lifted his hands to face them. In the darkness of his room, black and crumbly blood covered beastly claws. He didn't even realized he blinked. But when he did, all there was in front of him were normal hands; clean yet still scratched. It was a lie, nothing but smoke in mirrors.

His hands continued to shake. He could swear he'd dozed off, but his strained eyes told otherwise. There was no feeling of drowsiness, no fatigue, no shallow breathing or need to yawn.

Nothing.

He felt absolutely nothing. Not the bed he laid on. Not the wet clothes he wore slowly drying up. Not even his heartbeat. But something was there, something inside him.

_The demon._

He could still see the man's eye through the mask, wide and hollow. There was no life in it, not even fear or anger. Only nothing filled his eye. It was as if the man was in a psychotic trance and wasn't in control. But in his last blink, before he spoke, there it was.

_A fire blazing in the darkness._

Bruce's nose filled with the scent of blood. Their blood. No amount of water could cleanse them. No amount of good deeds would release the guilt. The demon was here to stay, to feats. He didn't even think of the other three. They never crossed his mind. The only one that was etched in his mind was the leader.

_Black Mask._

His hands dropped to his sides, bouncing on the spring mattress. The bed sheet around his wet pants was soaked as well. By an unconscious habit he slipped out of his shoes without even knowing. The mud was washed off in the rain puddles, so he didn't have to worry about making a mess.

It wouldn't matter though; nothing mattered any more.

Bruce was supposed to be the knight in shinny armor, sent by the towns people to slay the dragon. But when he did, there was no celebration. There was nobody to applaud his triumph. Nobody would even know it was him. It was if the dragon had won the battle and eaten the brave knight. Only the monster was left.

_Only the demon._

Alfred slept upside down in his cage in comfort with not a care in the world. Bruce watched the bat doze off in his return when the sun started to rise from behind the clouds. On the rack was his soaked coat draped over, the damp scarf hanging on one of the arms. Under the bed was the gun, safe in it's holding case. But in Bruce's pocket was something new.

A piece of paper, folded to the fullest.

It was on the ground at his feet during the fight, before the sirens grew louder. Before Black Mask fell off the roof top. But it wasn't Black Mask that fell into the abyss. It was Bruce. Nobody returned from that abandoned apartment. But, some_thing_ came back.

_The demon._

The morning light was dim, the cloud's blocking the sun from reaching the Wayne Manor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the plain stained paper. Struggling to lift his left hand from the bruise, he unfolded it all the way. The paper was filled from top to bottom with writing, half in pen and the rest in pencil.

His bruised arm collapsed before he began to read. His eyes traveled through the page, slowing down before he was half way through. He flipped the paper over and finished the rest. At the very bottom was the name of the person it was to be sent to and their address.

It wasn't too far.

Bruce slide his feet to the edge of the bed and slipped onto the floor. The wooden chair creaked when he sat in it. Scooting forward, he slapped the paper down on his work desk. Taking a golden point pen, he wrote something on the back. Fetching an envelope and his wallet, he tucked some dollar bills in the envelope. He noticed the address on the letter and wrote it on the outside of the envelope as well. Folding the letter back up two creases, he slipped it inside and licked it closed.

After changing out of his wet clothes and into a fresh dry suit, his father knocked. Bruce was fixing his tie when he answered.

"Come in."

Thomas opened the door, concern in his tone.

"Did you wake up late?" He asked, "Breakfast started a while ago."

"The lightning kept me up." Bruce said, his voice fading in and out. He cleared his throat to try to settle it.

His father lifted his lower lip and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, "Ah yes, you're a light sleeper. I nearly forgot." He gave out a soothing chuckle. "It should be fine. With the weather today we might as well sleep in, huh? Come on, your food's getting cold and your milk's getting warm."

Bruce winced as he slowly got up from the chair, the damage reminding him it's still exists.

"Dad?"

Thomas was at full attention, "What is it son?"

Bruce glanced at the letter on the desk, "Is it okay if we visit the church after breakfast?"

Thomas's mouth dropped in a long oval, "By golly, today is Sunday, isn't it? I can't believe I forgot. It a good thing you reminded me son, when you get old like me you tend to forget things. Just don't tell your mother that." He chuckled again and returned to the hallway.

Bruce waited for his father to leave to put the envelope in his suit's under pocket. Right after, he walked to the dining room; trying to hid his limp.

* * *

><p>The rain was a calm drizzle when they reached the church's parking lot. Thomas and Martha talked during the car ride over with Bruce quiet in the back seat. It really <em>was<em> as if nothing even happened. Everything was still the same.

The church's interior was filled with finely polished dark oak pews and support beams, stained glass windows bringing the outside light in. The smell of lit candles and incense gave the familiar feel to the well kept church. The mosaics of biblical figures surrounded and watched everyone from the large windows on all sides.

The Virgin Mary. Saint Joseph. Jesus Christ. Saint Michael. Mary next to Joseph on the right, and Jesus next to Michael on the left.

Before the pews was the stand where Father Gargano held Sunday morning Sabbath. Against the farthest wall past the stand was a large wooden cross, taking up the entire back. Some people already were in their traditional seats, waiting for the priest to begin. It wasn't ready for another half hour however, yet they waited.

Bruce's parents happily greeted oncoming acquaintances and fellow attendance of the church. While they shook hands and shared hellos, Bruce led himself to Father Gargano.

The priest stood off to the side, reading the bible as his lips silently followed along. He was among the oldest of priest in Gotham City yet one of the earliest to be in the church. His short, receding, white hair was nearly invisible against his pale complexion. His face didn't show his age as much, only wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.

"Excuse me, father?" Bruce greeted.

The priest looked up and closed his book with a welcoming smile. "Yes my child, is there something you need?" There was a little bit of an Italian ascent in his words.

Bruce's breath shuttered from anxiety, the demon tossing and turning inside him. He stood there with his mouth trapped open in wait for his tongue to make out the words.

"I need a confession."

"Is it urgent? Sabbath is about to start soon."

"I need it as soon as possible. My conscience is being unforgiving."

The old man's small eyes were almost in sympathy. "If it's quick, there should be no problem." He shrugged a shoulder unconsciously.

"Thank you father." Bruce said shaking Gargano's hand.

"You would like to have it in the confessionals, right?"

Bruce quickly glanced at his parents, who were still in their conversations with others. "Yes, that would be preferred."

The priest motioned a hand to the curtained booths off to the side and they approached them. Father Gargano entered the right booth through the wooden door, Bruce in the left; through a curtain.

The inside of the confessional was dark, almost pitch black. Bruce could see the father's silhouette behind the small, thick, wire screen. As he kneeled on the cushion provided on the floor, Gargano motioned a cross with his right hand. He tapped his forehead, heart, left shoulder, and right shoulder; respectively.

Bruce copied the motion and began. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

"What is your sin my child?"

Bruce's tongue fought the truth. He almost wanted to lie. Just say nothing and walk away. He wished it was that easy, but it wasn't. He paused his thoughts and closed his eyes. "I...I have killed."

"What have you killed?"

"People. I murdered four of them."

"Were they during the war?"

Bruce hesitated, looking away from the silhouette behind the thick screen. It was a war indeed. A war against crime. He decided to take advantage of the fact. "Y-yes...it was."

"God has forgiven your sins." The priest motioned a cross again as he spoke, "He wants you to forgive yourself as well."

Bruce shook his head ever so slightly, not even noticeable. He followed the motion of the cross and stood up, "Thank you father."

He stood up, the curtain whipping from his forceful push. He was about to scream. It burned inside him like a cauldron above a fire-pit. He didn't understand and it angered him immeasurably.

_The demon wants to be free._

God can forgive him, yet he himself cannot. He didn't know how that was possible, yet he had to accept the priest's words and respect them. He must forgive himself somehow and he will.

In time.

"Bruce," Father Gargano called out as he exited through the confessional door, "One more thing."

Bruce stopped with a shadow covering his face, only the shine of his eyes visible. He had to calm his face or else the priest would know his disgruntlement. He flexed his mouth to hide the frown and rubbed his nose. "Yes?" He said turning around.

"A death in war is not your fault. The only ones who should feel guiltily are the ones who declared it. I know in my heart you didn't intend to do it, and you should know it as well. The things everyone had to do during such a dark time, it _is _a wonder. But it was one of god's intentions and there _was_ a reason for it happen." Bruce looked down to the side, wanting to leave. The priest laid a light hand on Bruce's shoulder, "Just remember: God allows suffering, but he grants euphoria."

"Thank you father."

Gargano patted Bruce's shoulder, "Your welcome, my child."

Bruce didn't say anything else and headed to his seat in the pews next to his parents. Father Gargno made his way to the podium, and set his bible on it. The church's organ sounded the beginning of Sabbath. The loud deep notes vibrated through the air as it played, but only for a short time.

Once it stopped, the priest before everyone placed his hands on the sit of the podium, "Thank you everyone for attending this morning. The weather outside isn't the best and I appreciate each and every one of you for taking your time to be here, in the house of God."

He looked down at the book's pages with his mouth still open for a brief moment, "Our time on Earth…will end," The priest twitched a little as he spoke, trying to be comfortable with the subject he was presenting, "and god," He pointed a finger up, "_he_ will choose who stays and who will join him in heaven. The only thing stopping us from being with him is the decisions we make. If we don't follow his word, we won't be allowed to walk his path. Sinners of any kind will be trapped here on Earth during the rapture, forced to live the rest of eternity in Satan's fire.

If you cherish your soul and stick close to the Ten Commandments, peace will greet you. If not, if you prefer to live by the Seven Deadly Sins, then you _will _be left behind; and you _will _deserve to. God's judgment is never wrong. He may work in mysterious ways, but everything he's created is meant to be.

Now, it's not _what _rapture is that has everyone worried. It's when. We hear the predictions. Some say it might be in 1993, others say it's 1988. 1914, 1918, 1925, 1942; all of those were predicted and never happened. One takes it into the next millennium though. Sir Isaac Newton claims rapture won't happen anytime before 2060.

Maybe he's right, then again, maybe he's wrong. All the others were wrong, his could be the same. Who knows?" He pointed up again, "God knows. God, and time will tell us when our need on Earth is over. And when that happens, may god bless us. May god bless all of us."

* * *

><p>It was still morning when Sabrina opened the door to get the mail. She walked on the short concrete pathway to the sidewalk, the green grass slightly overgrown from lack of maintenance over the past three weeks. Only on and off rain water kept the lawn from turning dry.<p>

She was still wearing the same white and blue outfit as the night before, not needing to change. Her hair wasn't even brushed, frozen in place from sleeping in Roman's chair. She didn't even notice she had fallen asleep, and only washed the day old makeup off her face before heading outside. She planned on reapplying it to go to the store later if the weather got better.

The street was empty, all the kids inside because of the light drizzle. Puddles dotted the road in the unnoticeable dips here and there. She passed the short, unpainted, wooden fence gate and opened the blue mailbox. It didn't close fully when she closed the hatch, the deep dent on the right side stopping it from being completely shut.

She casually headed back into the house, starting to whistle. When no sound came out, she stopped, her mouth being too dry. Instead she hummed, the last tune she quietly listened to on the radio to keep her company last night.

She presumed all the mail was delivered all at once, yet a letter arrived right after the mailman came by.

Roman's letter.

She shut the door with her foot behind her to keep the heat in. Shuffling through the stack of miscellaneous advertisements and weekly sales from local markets, a thick letter stood out from the rest. She opened it by running her thumb under the top flap, the paper ripping in parts. Taking single dirty piece of paper out, she began to read:

**Sabrina,**

**If you receive this letter, it means you will never see me again. I want you to know it isn't because of another woman. It's because of life. What life has offered me is worse then any torture device crafted by man. My life was nothing. It began as nothing. But now, I'm making something of myself. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill Falcone and everyone under him. I'm sorry I complained about him every night when we first met. It's all his fault I'm like this. His gang is done for. I tried to just live like a normal person, but it wasn't meant to be. I'm sorry for getting you involved. I'm sorry for all the fights we had. I'm sorry I yelled at you so many times. I blamed you, but you didn't do anything wrong. It's all my fault. Please, just do one thing for me sweetie. Don't tell our little princess. It's the one thing I hate about myself the most, leaving her without a father. The two of you deserved more but got stuck with me. I made it up to you though. Remember how tight I was with money? I was saving it up for when I go. It's a second account with only your name on it. It should be enough for bills and food until she is 25. You can get a job before that honey, I know you can. Just be strong. I'm sorry I couldn't get the things you wanted. But now you know. Just know that there was nothing to do about this. Even if I survive, I can never show my face here again.**

She turned the page to read the last little bit that was left:

**This is for the best in everyone's favor. There is no other way. I feel so stupid getting you mixed in. Falcone won't hurt anyone anymore. Neither will I. Feel free to find another husband, for princess to live with someone taking care of her. Make sure he isn't like me though. I will miss you both very much. **

**Roman Sionis**

After Roman's signature, there was the same unknown handwriting adding:

**P.S. I put $300 that was on me as a little extra. Give it to princess or use it for food.**

The mail fell to the floor, swaying like dead autumn leaves from a tree. $50s and $20s slipped out of the envelope onto the carpet. Sabrina collided with the wall, sliding down slowly until she hit the ground. Every one of her fears came to life, and they where all at once. She held her chin with one hand and wept slowly, with pain.

Outside, the rain picked up quickly. Bruce stood next to a tree near a short white fence across the street. Nothing moved from within the Sionis household. No noise, no movement, no lights. Nothing but the rain overhead, falling infinitely. He looked down at his feet, the water streaming around his shoes into the gutter under the sidewalk he stood on. He dropped into the empty street and walked away.

The fog devoured him in the rain's haze, and finally, he vanished.

* * *

><p>Sea salt filled the blowing wind at the fog-filled harbor. Seagulls flew and called around the fishing boats anchored nearby. The pier was long, nearly reaching the lighthouse on the small peninsula curving towards the harbor. Bruce was at the edge, his toes over the wood.<p>

He could feel the water wanting him to jump in. He wanted to accept it's offer. The water hummed to him, singing. The song drew Bruce in, hypnotizing him. He envisioned the water surrounding him, aqua green everywhere. No struggling or bubbles.

Only acceptance.

The spotlights spinning inside the lighthouse pierced the fog without effort, alerting the ships of incoming land. Bruce veered away from the water once the light passed his face. No matter how much he wanted, it wasn't his time yet.

The gun stiffly jiggled inside the fine wood case, the blue scarf wrapped tightly around it in a strong knot. The old wooden pier he stood on shook slightly as the waves flowed back and forth, his eyes focused on the curly designs etched into the case's top hatch. The gunshots reverberated in his right hand as he stared, the ghost of the gun still firing non stop.

Bruce had to make it stop. He had to end it's hold on his mind. It had to be rid of. There was no place for a relic of war in a world of peace. There was nowhere this gun was allowed to fit in his world. But the thought kept the gun tight in his hands.

It wasn't his gun.

The gun belonged to his grandfather, the image of the black and white man posing in his Great War uniform entering above Bruce's sight. He remembered the war stories about how the trenches were, the pounding of the artillery, and the constant charging of the opposition. When they charged him, he had to use his pistol if they got his side's trench. Alfred didn't seem fond of killing the ones he killed, yet his words rang clear and true.

"It was kill or be killed in No Man's Land. Me being still here speaks for itself."

Now Bruce understood what he meant, yet the demon was still feeding on it's meal.

Bruce spoke to the heavy wind blowing against him, not expecting a reply. "Why were you made? What purpose could you possibly have?" He looked at the dark grey clouds filling the sky. "Is that what you intended?" Nothing up there moved or showed, not even the sun shine.

Spinning the case by the scarf, he flung it into the ocean. It disappeared into the harbor fog, the haze swallowing it completely. His nerves calmed a little, enough to let out a sigh of relief. They weren't all the way gone though, his hands still suffering a mild jitter. He slipped them into his coat pockets and turned around with his head down.

Bruce tired to take his mind off it, off last night. He forced himself to look at his feet and count the boards all the way to the end of the pier. To keep his mind away from the past and onto the future. He knew it wouldn't be an easy task, but it was a necessary one. If god can forgive him, surely he can find the strength too.

In time.

As he made his long walk home, the pistol box landed on a thick floating cluster of seaweeds. The pile of brown algae swished in the ocean water, like a ship caught in a storm. It slowly settled to just riding above the water. Just sitting there. Just floating.

Just waiting.

[Author's Note: If anyone is already judging on my religion, please allow me to explain myself. I am NOT Christian (even though my name is Christian, ironic huh?) or Catholic or Mormon or any believer of a God.

I am semi Buddhist. It must feel weird for someone like me to be talking about a "western" religion as I have, but I guess that's what sets me apart from others. Other people on this site tend to bash and hate on religion or praise and attempt to convert others. I just want to set the record straight.

I am NOT attempting to convert anyone to Christianity or Buddhism. I am only showing how the religion is and is practiced during the 1940s, at least that's how I think it happens. I have never been in a Church and most likely will never be. If anyone would like to help in making the church scene more "realistic", then feel free to help.

Also I might edit this chapter after it's published, so it might not be the same later.

I hope that takes away any thoughts about what I intended in this chapter and any other chapter I write.

Thank you for reading.]


	5. Finale: The Ghost of Damascus

It was sunset as Bruce got into the manor through the white double doors. He could only sense it was sunset because the light started fading fast from above the grey sky. The chandelier in the main hall was already lit when he entered, illuminating the house like a personal sun in a pale yellow.

The nearby butler approached Bruce, taking his coat off. "How was your trip today, sir?" He asked cheerfully, his Jersey accent being a common tune.

"Just fine, Jeffry." Bruce lied, handing him the dripping wet coat. He set his fedora on the rack next to the door, also soaked.

"A miss Barbara Gordon telephoned for you earlier while you were out, sir. She asked for you to call her back whenever you are free to."

Bruce looked at him and gave a pleased nod. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll call her right now." A little bit of warmth started swimming through him, the first time in the entire day. He nearly forgot their agreement for casual dates with everything else happening. As he was about to head to the phone, Jeffery's voice stopped him.

"Your parents are in the dining room eating dinner already, sir." Jeffery hinted to him.

Bruce rolled his eyes at himself for being late twice in one day. "After dinner then."

The dinning room was full of people when he entered, only his chair next to his parents empty. Once his mother saw him opening the door, she dropped her spoon. Everyone watched her run to him and hug tightly. Bruce hid his grimace from the pressure she gave to his sore ribs.

"Oh good gracious, Brucey! What took you so long? Why did you walk off on your own?" She touched his rain drenched face and yelped, "Oh, you're all wet! Now you're going to catch a cold! What is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry mother." Bruce said shamefully, "I just wanted to get some fresh air and took a detour. I didn't think it was going to start raining again."

"Well you had me worried sick." Martha started to calm down, her voice less frantic. "I thought someone kidnapped you or robbed you. I was going to call the police but your father told me to wait."

"You don't know how difficult that was son." Thomas said raising his eyebrows. Edward stifled a laugh with his cloth napkin.

"I'm-," His mother's jaw twitched as she slowed her words down, "I'm just grateful you came back in one piece. Let's just eat our dinner and relax after all this excitement."

Martha lead Bruce to their side of the long dinner table, passing the servants and housekeepers. Bruce's steak and potatoes were still hot and steamy once he sat down and scooted his chair forward. Taking his knife and fork, he dug in, almost swooned by the food's heavenly aroma. He enjoyed the smell, yet his mouth was slow in eating.

"So Edward, my young philanthropist," Tomas said chewing, "What kind of investments are you planning in the near future? Anything on the line of industry or agriculture for your Southern taste?"

Edward swallowed his food and patted his mouth with his linen cloth, fixing his pencil mustache with his fingers through the cloth. "As a matter of fact, I'm going into the stock market. With my own money in my own companies, I thought why not help out others. That way if competition gets an upper hand, I do as well."

Thomas held his wine glass in his hand and looked up in thought, "Now that you put it that way, it sounds like a fine plan. But you know me, I take it as gambling. Not my way one bit."

They continued talking, Bruce still forcing his food down. His dry throat almost kept the food in his mouth. Taking a drink was difficult, pain shooting in his arm as he reaches for the glass. He nearly spilt it from the drained strength the bruise caused. Eating dinner was more of a pain than a pleasure tonight.

With his stomach full, he sat in the wooden chair next to the telephone stand, comfortably in the far corner of the den. His father's den was filled with animal fur rugs and an elk head mount over the brick fireplace. A large bookshelf stacked with countless books stood by his father's antique leather chair. The fire place was on, stuffing up the air in the closed room.

Picking up the black phone, he put his finger in the number wheel and dialed. The wheel clicked loudly as he entered all seven numbers. Barbara answered the phone in two rings.

"Hello?"

"Yes, Barbara? It's Bruce. I'm sorry I didn't get your call, I was occupied most of the day."

"Busy doing rich boy things?" She joked, the both of them chuckling, "It's okay. Well I called to see if you wanted to go to the museum tomorrow. They've just opened a new World War 1 exhibit and added some new relics for the medieval section."

"That sounds great, I'd love to go."

"Perfect." She sounded delighted, "When will you pick me up?"

"How about noon, is that good for you?"

"Noon is perfect. That will give me enough time to get all gussied up just for you."

"Great, see you then."

"See you."

Bruce's bed springs squeaked from his weight. Flipping the fresh and clean covers from under his legs, he wrapped himself in the blanket's warmth. His striped pajamas felt comfortable, almost nonexistent. Just out of the bath tub, his skin and hair was washed. It was almost instant when he fell asleep

_There was sand all the way to the horizon, nothing else in sight. Bruce could barely open his eyes from an extreme presence of drowsiness. The sun above was strong, burning his skin with it's intense heat. The whistling wind soothed him, only to pelt his bare chest with sand._

_His arms were open wide with his feet touching together. He lifted his head, having it smack against wood. In the middle of his hands and feet were large iron nails hammered all the way in, now covered in blood that continues to drip down. The ground under him was too far to sense, him being nailed to a giant wooden cross._

_His throat was dry from sweating for hours and the small, continuous, loss of blood. The ropes around his arms kept him in place, the rough fibers prickling his skin. Every breath he took moved his hands around the thick nails, the severed nerves doing their part. His entire arms felt like they are on fire internally with the slightest movements and never ceased. _

_If only he could scream._

_It would do him no good, for no one would hear his cries for help. He was the only sign of life in the infinite desert plain. It was only him on the cross, alone, with nobody else. Only torture was there with him. It would only be a matter of time when he will die of exhaustion, a long time that seems like an eternity. _

_His breathes started getting deeper, the burning inside his arms intensifying. He wasn't going to make it. The end was close for him. A cold tingle crept in the back of his head. He tiredly struggled to get out of the nails' hold, shaking the cross in the loose sand. The nails ripped into his flesh, opening the formerly formed holes even more. The cross came loose and fell onto the hot sand, a cloud of dust flying in the air._

_Whether it was the force of the heavy cross's weight on top of him or the new tearing in his feet and hands overcoming him, it was over. His last breath was before the fall._

The bed shook from Bruce sitting up in a cold sweat. Heat flushed down his face as he struggled to breathe. He wiped his arm against his face, almost drenching his sleeve. His head falling back on the pillow, his breathing started to slow down. His heart pounded furiously, the thumping loud inside him.

He looked at the metal clock on his nightstand, using the moonlight to sense the position of hands. The smaller hand was at the "2". He didn't want to go back to sleep, in fear of another nightmare. But before he knew it, he was sound asleep.

* * *

><p>The rain had stopped.<p>

The walk was refreshing for the two of them, able to get away from their parents for a day. Barbara looked almost entirely different in her casual wear. Her hair was tied back in a chignon bun, twisted and loose with the front of her wavy red hair tucked behind her ears. Her white floral dress was short at her legs, just under her knees. The small roses and vines covered her thin dress all over, matching with her natural hair color. She changed styles more often than Bruce, who wore his usual looking black suit and fedora.

"I was a little skeptical when I heard you were in church." Barbara said holding Bruce's arm, "Didn't seem like little Brucy to be the religious type. In fact, I think I remember you telling me about how you hated when your parents forced you to go."

Bruce shrugged a shoulder, "I thought I should take some consideration to my religion. Someone helped in ending the war, thanks to millions of prayers and a few miracles." He didn't look at her in fear of being caught lying. Her father worked around liars, behind and in front of the stand when he's in a court room. Same thing when he supervisees an interrogation.

"I guess your right." She said agreeing, "I think I should give some thanks when I go to David's church."

"Why are you going to church there?" Bruce asked concerned, "That's all the way in West End."

"I'm taking organ playing lessons with uncle David since he's a pastor there. He's letting me use his church's organ at night."

"What happened to your piano lessons?"

"Daddy doesn't want to pay for them anymore. Says I'll get spoiled like Bruce Wayne." She laughed, "Who knows, maybe I get a job playing at the baseball stadium."

Puddles filled the streets and sidewalks as Bruce and Barbara entered the Gotham Museum. Other people followed them up the concrete steps to the wide entrance. They could tell it was a big museum from the sets of stairs leading up to the other two floors. The lights were dim inside, mostly darkness covering the walls. The polished wood floor was slippery under their wet shoes, but became normal after a few steps in.

They passed the overhead sign reading: WW1, entering the exhibit. The walls were lined with wooden displays of guns and equipment. Helmets, shovels, rifles, food rations, machine guns, all from the different countries that participated in the war. A French Renault FT tank was in the center of everything, surround with velvet ropes. Bruce and Barbara split off and observed artifacts on different sides, along with the other people in the exhibit.

Bruce walked by display cases until one caught his eye, making his chest cold and heavy. A M1911 Colt .45 rested in the case, a glare in the glass from the overhead light shining directly on it. His legs were frozen, his right index finger twitching. He could still feel the cold chill of that night, the kick of the pistol.

The guilt of their deaths.

It took Barbara's voice to break the spell. "Hey Bruce, check this out!"

Bruce looked to the other side to see Barbara bent over a case with a hand waving high, calling him over. He took a final glance at the pistol and rushed over to her. In the display case she was near, Bruce could see a greenish grey cylinder with one side pointed, resembling an oversized bullet.

"What is it?"

She smiled and started reading the words on the case's front brass plate, "Mustard gas: Within 24 hours of exposure, victims experience intense itching and skin irritation, which gradually turns into large blisters filled with yellow fluid wherever the mustard agent contacted the skin. If the victim's eyes were exposed, they become sore, after which the eyelids swell, causing temporary blindness. At very high concentrations, if inhaled, mustard agent causes bleeding and blistering within the throat and lungs, including the build up of fluid. There were few deaths caused by this gas, but the majority of victims were taken out of the fight from skin, eye, and lung damage." She stood up after finishing and stuck her tongue out, pointing a finger into her mouth while making a gagging noise.

Bruce nodded his head, "Sounds like a living hell."

"That's were I am when daddy has congressmen over. I'm always afraid of my ears falling asleep before I do."

"Maybe you can use that mustard gas to make them leave next time they're there." Bruce joked, pointing a thumb at the fake artillery shell.

"I wish." She put her hands on her hips in amusement, "But one of those flame throwers would do better." She nudged her chin towards a German flame thrower strapped to the back of a uniformed mannequin on a stand, "It'll make sure they don't return."

"I'll say." He slid his hand through the loop her arm created and guided her away from the exhibit, "Come on. Let's get to those medieval things you mentioned. We'll come back to this side on the way out."

She walked with him, a pleased grin on her face. On the way up the stairs, Bruce gave the pistol display case a last look until the above floor blocked it from his view. A line of people gathered around a tour guide as they entered the second floor. The guide lead all of them to the medieval section, Bruce and Barbara following in the back. Bruce's arm released its tension once they got away from the World War 1 exhibit.

"How much does a country have to hate another to do such horrible things like they did?"

"They didn't really hate each other that much. All they where doing really was helping their allies to win. The real enemies were Austria-Hungary and Serbia since they started the entire thing. I remember hearing the story about the Christmas Truce that happened near the beginning of the war. Each side on the Western Front got out of their trenches and enjoyed Christmas together with gifts and singing. Then the next day, they had to go back to fighting like it never happened."

"I wonder how that war even ended. The way it was fought and everything, it seems like it should still be going on."

"You don't remember the Treaty of Versailles in 1918?" Bruce answered, "It was the first step that ruined everything, with the armistice on November 11th putting the whole war to rest. I thought they taught it in school?"

Barbara rolled her eyes at him, "I'm sorry Bruce, but I wasn't the one with the World War 1 veteran as a grandfather. They only skimmed over it in my history class since it's not from the 1800s or that ancient civilization stuff."

"Right, how was private school anyway? Was it worth the time taken in it?"

"Not for me. You completely lucked out with being home schooled. I would of given anything to leave the class rooms. I guess making friends was good, but all the girls there were little snobby brats. It's like they were paid to be self centered and just plain boring! All they would talk about was how important their parents where. It made me want to kidnap them, just to see if their parents really cared about them. I would bet money they would never see them again!" She made almost a sinister cackle, but turned it into an amused chuckle.

Suits of armor and steel shields filled the view of the room. A heavy armored crusader held a sword high in an offensive stance at the entrance, the red cross on his white chest plate faded from age. The armor and square helmet hid the mannequin inside, only two rectangular slits at the eyes offering an opening.

Large glass cases held weapons and armor inside. Maces, bows, swords, pikes, shields, flails, halberds, spiked clubs; everything from the dark ages used in battle. One case stood out from the rest, one that was in the center with lights from the ground shining on it instead of from the ceiling. Everyone else ignored it, everyone except for Bruce. He approached the case, Barbara not even realizing he let go of her arm.

Inside was a fully armored black knight, the helmet with bat-like wings on the sides. The eyes and nose were covered, only the mouth exposed. Three metal spikes lined the back of the forearms. A large cloth cape wrapped around the neck, lined with points at the bottom. Despite there being no one inside the suit, it still gave off the sense of intimidation.

Bruce's finger tips touched the glass surrounding the case. Another museum worker noticed him looking at the case so closely and approached him.

"Interesting piece, ain't it?" The worker said, his voice slightly nasally. He was tall and skinny, his uniform loose and too small for him. His face was partially hidden with glasses and a thick moustache. He pointed at the case, "It's one of the new relics from Europe. Came in all the way from Germany. That thing survived bombings and everything. It was found in rubble of it's old museum and still looks like it just got out of the blacksmith."

"Bruce," Barbara said finding him, "I was talking to myself over there for a while. Next time you should warn me so people don't stare again."

"I'm sorry. I just saw this and couldn't help but learn about it."

Barbara looked at the suit of armor and clapped her hands together, "It's so creepy! I like it."

"It doesn't got an information plate yet," The worker adjusted his hat and cleared his throat, "so I gotta stand here and tell ya all about it. Luckily for me there isn't much to say."

"Which country used it?" Barbara asked.

"Well, it was found in Germany, so we think the Germans used it. Black was their emblem color, making it a good guess. Thing is, there is only one in existence that we know of, so there is no proof." He pointed at the helmet, "See those wings there? That has never been seen on any German armor or even any armor in particular. To add to the mystery, an expert in blacksmithing says it's made from Damascus steel. If you look real close here on the chest you can make out the wavy designs Damascus steel is known for. But, that kind of stuff was used for swords, not armor."

"Is there anything else to say about it?" Bruce asked.

The worker took in a deep breath, "Nope. That's practically the whole story." He motioned a hand to the tour group, "Now over here in the tour is the real history. Follow the tour guide unless you want to miss out."

"Come on Bruce," Barbara said pulling on his arm, "Let's go and look at the weapons. I want to show you the kind of sword I'm planning on buying."

Both of them walked away from the black knight's display case, leaving it to be alone. Bruce looked back, seeing no sign of the museum worker anywhere. Just in that corner was the glass case. Inside the black knight stayed perfectly straight, and perfectly threatening.

* * *

><p>World War 1, the Great War.<p>

Only four countries made up the Central Powers: Germany, Austria-Hungary, the Ottoman Empire, and later on Bulgaria. Just four counties against the rest of the world. To make things worse: they are in the middle of everything. With the enemy on all sides, there was no other choice but to dig in and let them come.

With the trenches everywhere, Europe was nothing but an uncovered mass grave.

The Allies ,however, learned like a hand on a stove. If they didn't, the war would have been over a year before it started. They took their shovels and dug into the ground the very chance they got. In mere days a battlefield was no more than two long lines with barbwire edges and artillery craters in the middle. The middle of a battlefield was dubbed as the most appropriate name it could ever be given: No Man's Land.

In trench warfare, it was a stalemate as long as there where two sides. Both tried everything they could: artillery, tanks, gas, machineguns, snipers. Nothing worked. Sometimes a side would try to charge the enemy, wanting the battle to end in victory or death.

Most of the time, death.

Far away from the dried out man-made wasteland known as "No Man's Land", the war had another face to show. The Ottoman Empire was most of the Middle East all under one rule and was dedicated to stay that way. The British wanted to say otherwise, their need to conquer the desert getting the best of them. They took the southeast while Russia came in from the north, getting them like a head in a vise.

And like anything being squeezed, there's a point when it gives in. It's not a pretty sight when it does either. There's always a mess with someone having to clean it up. But the Ottoman Empire wasn't going to be swung at without swinging back. They fought with the other Central Powers aiding as much they could.

They were just a speed bump. The Ottoman Empire started to shrink battle after battle like a loose balloon. After four years, Germany and Austria-Hungary left the fight, taking their troops with them. But some of them stayed behind, trapped in the sands with nowhere else to go.

Hauptmann Dominik Schwartz was one of those left behind.

From his strategy tent, Dominik veered his attention off the local map to see his makeshift company digging. Almost all of them were locals, natural born Ottoman Empire children. The other few dozen were routed Germans, somehow still moving around to continue the fight. He thought he was the only German left in the Ottoman Empire, the rest rotting in the sand or on a train to Egypt; soon to rot in a POW camp.

He stomped his foot, shooing away the flies floating around the bullet wound on his calf. It was bandaged up with a rag made of a shirt, the dead soldier he borrowed it from didn't need it anyone. From under the heat waving sand, his messenger climbed up from the trench and jogged towards him. The fez wearing Arabian stopped in exhaustion under the tent's pleasant shade, holding onto his knees. Dominik held out a metal water flask as an offer; Kerim shaking his head in a polite rejection.

"Thank you my friend," He said in Arabic, "but I'm not thirsty." He hooted a breath as he stood up straight, "I'm just tired from using the shovel."

"So," Dominik re-screwed the flask and set it on the table, "What was the hurry?" He spoke in Arabic as well, nearly being fluent during the five years he's been there since the campaign started.

"The other soldiers, they found something under the-"

"Did you forget it in the trench, Kerim?"

"No my friend, it's too big for me to carry."

"Like a chest?"

"Far bigger."

Dominik grunted, not wanting to guess any more, "How big?"

"We don't know. The trench doesn't go that far across." He pointed from the right side and moved his finger to almost where the left side ended, then followed back while he talked, "It starts at the left here and keeps on going right. We thought it was a sand covered boulder, but it was made of mortar and cut stone. What should we do?"

It was curiosity that drove him to find out what it was. Dominik had been an avid archaeologist before the war, taking classes in digging and researched on long forgotten artifacts. It just wasn't planned to find something all the way in Damascus.

It took several nights of digging to come up with an answer. Digging during the day was strictly avoided in fear of loosing men. In the desert, heat is a bigger threat than bullets. Rocks and ware broke shovels during the digging, spares being delivered from the locals by wagon, along with the rest of supplies. Soon, they would all known what is hidden under the sand.

If only Dominik knew what he had uncovered.

[DARK]

The desert night's cold was a familiar chill for him, the same as the German nights back home. It would of snowed if it wasn't so dry. Dominik looked at his pocket watch near a lantern, the little hand on the nine. Kerim swiped the tent curtains open in a quick hurry, taking Dominik's eyes from the ticking watch.

"We found a doorway!" He exclaimed, "It's an entrance to something!"

"How far down was it found?" Dominik asked, wondering how a stone entrance was found in the flat sand. There where a few dunes in the area, but none big enough to hide a structure.

"Come my friend," Kerim beckoned with his hand, "come see for yourself!"

Dominik leaped off the bed, wrapping his fingers around his gun belt on his way up. He fastened the belt, his PO8 Lugar weighty in the holster. He took his satchel that rested against his night desk where he read. His bag held a few rations, matches, spare ammo, his canteen, and a gas mask. He's heard about tomb raiders attacking explorers when they've excavated a tomb. Most of the time there is treasure and valuable artifacts to be found, too much for one trip. He's heard of them even making a camp inside the tomb, making sure no one else takes their find.

The two friends walked the short trip to the entrance, passing the scattered torch stands planted into the dirt. The camp was well lit during night time digging, making sure the diggers knew where they dug. A continuous supply of torches and lantern oil came from Damascus, ensuring a well lit environment.

Ropes were tied to the large stone slab that covered the entrance, it now lying down on the sand. It took a few workers to pull it with others using large wooden stakes to wedge into the openings. The workers sat in the thin trench made to unearth the opening, drinking well deserved water and resting.

The entrance they dug up was a large stone rectangle with steps leading into an infinite darkness. The rest of the structure was just a square outline of stone bricks that covered a large area. The diggers left the sand on the top, knowing there was nothing but stone underneath. The supporting roof was long, hiding the entrance six feet under it.

Dominik expected to feel excitement, but instead was given a chill. It was a tingling chill, crawling around on his skull. He rubbed his head, trying to get rid of the feeling. His words fought to escape his mouth, still not believing his eyes.

"It's-it's a pyramid. Only, there isn't an outside. There's just a doorway inside." It just wasn't possible. The Egyptians were the only people that build pyramids, but Damascus was in the Middle East, far from even the outskirts of ancient Egypt. It was the rarest sight anyone could be granted, beautiful in the eyes of an archeologist.

"I have something to tell you Dominik. We have to bury this back up. I only wanted you to see it before we do."

"What are you talking about? Why will you dig this back up after we spent so long trying to find it?"

"The workers are right, I here every one of them talking about the curse."

"What curse?"

"Some people have found this thing years before I was even born, and by the time they have others to see it, the desert swallows it back up and they find nothing. It's only been mentioned in rumors and bed-time tales. They say a creature lives inside and gives a curse to anyone that enters its tomb. They say it's: What everyone can have, but nobody will want."

"What is it then?"

"Nobody knows for sure. I've heard it's death from some people, but then others say it's infamy, misfortune, disease, poverty, it could be anything."

"I'm going inside." Dominik stated firmly, "You can dig it back up _after _I see what's in there, that's if all of you are really scared of the curse."

The two of them took wooden torches from their stands to illuminate their way towards the entrance to the unknown landmark. Dominik checked his Lugar P08's magazine to rid it of any sand that got caught inside from the gust of wind. He blew into the it and slipped it back into the gun.

"I'm only telling you not to go inside because I care for you my friend." Karem plead, trailing behind Dominik.

"Kerim, you don't have to worry about me. I don't mind if you believe in that silly superstition. That's all it is. Just a tale to keep the kids afraid of doing bad things. Now if you are not going to join me, don't keep me waiting."

Kerim looked down, rubbing his head by moving his fez, "It's just that, we've known each other for a long time now. Since I first saw you come out of the train, I knew I was looking at a great man. I can't even believe it's been three years already."

Dominik put an arm on Kerim's shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. Kerim smiled, opening his arms up. The two hugged, patting each other on the back.

"It's amazing people like you that make me want to stay here Kerim." Dominik said softly.

Kerim chuckled, swallowing down a lump in his throat, "And it's people like you that make me want to visit Germany." His smile stayed strong as his eyes shined from sadness, "Have you decide if you're going to stay here after the war?"

Dominik sighed, "I'm still not sure. I don't even know if I can go back home. To the German army, I might as well not exist. What about you?"

"There's no way I can go back to my home. My house, my wife, my kids, my family, all gone. All burned. Everything gone in Nazareth." His mouth shuddered as he took a deep breath.

Dominik remembers it still as if he was living it. He could still feel the flames engulfing the large palace. He could still see the soldiers shooting and fighting inside through the windows. He remembers exactly the third floor window in the middle of the palace where Kerim's oldest brother jumped out, in flames. He could still hear the screaming, from the people inside and from Kerim right in front of him, held down by Dominik's hands. Kerim would have been trapped under the palace's collapse if he hadn't held him back.

"It'll be okay Kerim." Dominik assured, "We'll find a place to live and get everything back to how it was. I expect you'll be waiting right here outside until I return?"

Kerim nodded, "Right on this spot." He patted his feet against the sand, "Just don't take to long or you'll get me worried."

Dominik couldn't help but cough a laugh, walking past his friends towards the ancient stone doorway. Sand spilled down the steps as he walked down them, almost making him lose his footing. The torch helped in lighting the pathway, Dominik using his free hand to hold onto the stone wall. By the time he reached the bottom of the steps, the light was gone from the entrance, mostly diluted from his close by torch.

The first room was almost entirely bare, with just stone pillars keeping the large room together. He approached a pillar to see hieroglyphics covering it from top to bottom, as well were the others. The walls were covered with copper, hieroglyphics hammered in to the metal.

He didn't fully know the language of hieroglyphics, but he knew the names of most important and common figures. Most of the symbols didn't seem like much, but there was one that caught his eye. A bat outline, always to the right of a person with a jackal's head. He knew the jackal headed man was the Egyptian god Anubis, but the bat was unknown to him. He wasn't even sure if there where bats in Egypt to even make a symbol after one.

"Dominik!"

He rushed outside, reacting quickly to Kerim's shout from outside. The steps were slippery from the sand grains, but he made it to the top in no time. His torch whooshed loudly as he searched about for his friend. "Kerim! Where are you?"

A faint noise made his spine swirl with a cold chill. He sprinted to the trenches nearby, hoping to find his friend in there. Rapid pounding beat through the air. He could see where the noise was coming from once he got close to the trench.

Thousands of hooves, all against the desert sand.

Egyptian bred horses galloped towards the long trench, Dominik's men widely spread out inside. The Egyptian horsemen held torches to light their way in the night, seeming like small orange orbs from the trench's distance. Their defining shouts and ululation echoed in the barren sands, getting louder as seconds ticked.

"Dominik!" Kerim exclaimed as he ran through the trench, "They're coming!"

"I know, they're early. I didn't think they'd attack so soon. Spread the word to the men: Open fire when able."

"Yes my friend." Kerim ran back and shouted out the order, Dominik doing the same on the right side.

The soldiers got out of hiding and aimed their weapons at the approaching horsemen, resting them against the freezing sand. The single MG08 in the center got the belt fed machinegun ready to fire.

Most of the soldiers carried Geweher 98s, the standard German bolt-action rifle. The Ottoman Empire used the rifles as well, not having a rifle of their own. The rest of them had any miscellaneous weapon they could get their hands on, from Lee Enfield's to hunting guns found in the local markets. Dominik was one of the few that held a pistol, only needing it when the enemy got too close.

He hoped they didn't.

The chain of ordering to fire was screamed out, followed by the racket of rifles. The MG08 fired continuously at the incoming enemy, the gunner swaying the gun from left to right. The line of horsemen fell from the oncoming fire, the ones in front being trampled by the horse behind them. Once they were close enough to make out the soldiers gathered in the trench, the Egyptian horsemen opened fire with their small carbines.

Bullets threw sand into the trench, some of them hitting their target. The defending attack was too much for the charging horsemen, bringing their line to a scattered group of fleeing Egyptians. The horsemen were stopped just one-hundred feet from the trench line, a few stray horses leaping over the hole to escape.

The battle wasn't over yet, not by a long-shot.

A second wave of horsemen had followed close behind the first. The line of horses stretched far pass the trench. Dominik knew they would be hit by the sides and eventually surrounded. He shouted out the order to aim for the edges. The chain of orders echoed his command, followed shortly by it being executed.

The MG08 couldn't fire that far of arc, so it reloaded and continued to aim for the middle. The rows of horsemen and the spread of them was too much, the Egyptians closing in dangerously close. They hopped over the trench, overrunning the Ottoman troops. The machinegun ceased after the gunner's neck was met with an Egyptian sword. Hundreds of horsemen passed the Ottoman troops, with only more following. The ones that made it over the trench got off their horses and ran into the camps.

The Egyptians scattered about, setting fire to the tents in the camps. Once all the horsemen had vaulted over the trench, Dominik shouted the order.

"Fix bayonets!" The echoers shouted after him, the sound of bayonets slipping and clicking in front of the rifles stopping after a few seconds. "Charge!"

The Ottoman troops charged at the Egyptians, firing before they ran. Men fell at the volley of gun fire from both sides. Bayonets and swords clashed with steel and connected with bare flesh. The battlefield turned from two lines into a mash of soldiers fighting to the death. Dominik was smack dab in the middle of it, surrounded by others.

He fired his Lugar rapidly, spending two clips in half a minute. Men fell all around him in the night, their screams of pain ringing out. In the middle of the fighting, there was his good friend Kerim. He was lying still face down, a sword plunged into his back. The killer was on horseback, leaning off the side of the horse to take the sword out.

Dominik stared at him, and he stared at Dominik. The Egyptian galloped towards him, holding the stained sword high in the air. Dominik tried to fire, but all he got was a stiff click. A bullet shell was jammed inside the ejector, preventing it from firing. He was forced to toss the gun aside, having to find another.

A dead Arabian had a hunting shotgun dropped next to his outstretched hand, with only one shot in the barrel to fire. Dominik kneeled down to pick up the shotgun, the horseman getting within feet of him. He fired, sending buckshot straight into the horse's head. The horse fell forward, it's front legs sliding in the sand. The Egyptian kept his body leaned back, tying to prevent the horse from flinging over.

Dominik got the shotgun by the barrel and swung it the stock into the horseman's face. The Egyptian fell off to the side, with Dominik dodging the horse as it tumbled over and stopped it's momentum. From his stachel, he took out a long saw-back bayonet and unsheathed it from it's leather sleeve. His friend's killer lay on the ground, dazed from the bone breaking blow to the jaw.

Grabbing the killer by his shemagh, Dominik sawed through his neck. The screams of immense pain stopped when he was about half way through. Once the deed was done, he held the loose head high. The fighting was done by the time he finished the job, his fellow soldiers cheering with him in a victorious ululation.

The torches allowed the surviving soldiers to see the hundreds of dead people and horses all around them. Only some of the people on the ground moved, and even then it didn't last long. The fighting seemed over with no more shooting, but Dominik knew it wasn't done yet. They knew the British were in the area somewhere.

Dominik froze, his men staying still as well. No one dared to make a noise. Only their eyes darted all about, anticipating a side attack or more horsemen. The silence was deafening, almost having Dominik think he's lost his hearing for a second. Not even the wind howled.

Then the flashes lit the sky.

Bright flashes of light appeared on the horizon, before the mountains in the far distance. The echo of the blasts flew across the desert air, like thunder in a storm. Once the high pitched whistling came from above, it was clear. An artillery barrage had begun.

Soldiers scattered about, hoping to avoid the explosive rounds. They headed towards the trench, knowing that was the safest place during a barrage. Dominik kept his head down inside the moist dirt trench, silently praying a shell wouldn't hit him directly. Some of the soldiers weren't as lucky, the artillery tossing them into the air.

A shell landed in front of Dominik, the sand flying onto him and everyone else to his left and right. The continuous bombing shook him from the inside, making his loose teeth rattle inside his mouth. It was a short barrage, but to the victims it felt like an eternity.

During the break, the cries for help from the people hit was all Dominik could hear. He got out and searched for the nearest person calling. A fellow German soldier crawled towards him, using his remaining arm to inch his way forward. His clothes on the right side where charred and still smoking, kept together by his belt that seared to his skin.

"Helft mir…" The soldier wheezed, he coughed out clumps of wet sand that he swallowed accidentally, "Bitte, helft mir."

Dominik grabbed the man's arm and dragged him towards the trench, knowing a second barrage was coming. He turned back as he dragged the soldier, seeing the flashing resume far away. The clicking and thumping of distant artillery fire made Dominik hurry.

This time the shells didn't explode. This time the shells puffed into a thick cloud of smoke, covering more than the entire trench line and camp. Dominik's nose filled with the smell of garlic, which soon turned to mustard. He dropped the soldier's hand and franticly searched in his satchel for his gas mask.

Taking hold of it, he slipped it on. Some of the mustard gas had gotten in his lungs before he could, making him cough violently. His eyes watered as he ran blindly through the smoke and sand, only seeing a yellow hue of smoke and the dark night sky. Thick liquid escaped from his mouth, splattering inside his mask. The smell was unbearable, but he didn't dare take off his mask.

The barrage wasn't only the gas shells, now the normal rounds exploding around him. He didn't know where to go. He didn't know what to do. The explosions, the screaming, the vomit, the blindness, everything disoriented him to the fullest. He didn't even know where he was heading, even running into blown out torch stands and tripping over dead horses.

He hoped they were dead.

A loose shape was forming in front of him as he got to the edge of the smoke clouds. He couldn't see it himself, but he was getting close to the tomb's entrance. The artillery seemed to be getting closer to him, the British knowing the soldiers on the opposing end are forced to scatter during a gas attack. A shell went off right behind him, tossing him straight into the tomb. The straps on his mask broke from the force, knocking his mask right off before he tumbled down the steps.

More shells landed in the same area, a few hitting the entrance's roof. The stones gave in from the impact, filling the opening with rubble. The only way in was now sealed up with stone, with no way of getting out. It wasn't long before the barrage stopped, allowing the British soldiers to move forward.

Even a few hours after the battle's end, everyone wore a gas mask until the gas was fully evaporated. The few surviving Ottoman Empire soldiers surrendered, on their knees with their hands behind their heads in a line. A British soldier turned over a body with his foot, only to be shot by the half-alive German soldier's rifle. The Englishman went down with a round to the chest. Nearby Allied soldiers opened fire on the German, putting him down for good. The British didn't search for weapons or ammo, only to ensure the enemy soldiers on the ground were dead and not wounded.

Several scattered gunshots were heard as a young soldier found the rubble. He thought he heard a voice nearby, sensing the direction was from inside the rubble. He heard the noise again, a low quiet voice. Putting his ear to the pile of stones, he listened carefully.

"Helfen...," Loud wet coughs intervened, "Helfen!"

"Captain, captain!" The soldier rushed over to his commanding officer riding on horseback. "Captain, over here!" He pointed over to the stone rubble, "There is a man there. He's calling for our help!"

The captain got off the horse and approached the tomb.

"Do you hear him?" The soldier asked.

The captain listened carefully, "Yes, yes I hear him."

"What are we going to do? Are we going to get him out?"

"No, leave him there. He won't escape."

The British and Egyptian soldiers continue on into Damascus, not even bothering to search the dead. They will scavenge after capturing the city, using the citizens to do it for them. There wouldn't be another human anywhere near the battlefield until then. It wouldn't be days until then.

Dominik's gas mask sat against the stone rubble as the Allied soldiers marched on by. Their shadows swooped by, the tents still in flames. The black gas mask watched them pass in it's infinite, yellow gaze. The fire burning reflected in the glass circles, burning until they die out.

The police officer set the black gas mask in the evidence locker, locking it up with a key. People walked by in the hallway, the locker facing the glass window showing everything going on through there from inside the evidence room. The little slits in the small locker shown light on the mask, as well as allow a semi clear view out from the inside.

Everyone walking by didn't notice it. The empty eye holes stared out from inside the locked locker, watching everyone that passed by. Scratches covered the face, with small dents in the metal. Everyone was oblivious to the continues noise. No body heard anything.

Nothing but the echoes of the past screams.

(Author's note: If I get some feedback about the adventures of Kerim and Dominik before the event shown here, I'd be happy to make a chapter or even side story dedicated to them. I won't do it unless people want me to, since it would take time out of the initial story and from my writing, Even if there is a good amount of people wanting a Kerim and Dominik story, it won't be written until AFTER the ending to Gotham 1945. I'm just letting everyone know so there are no misassumptions.) 


	6. update notice

I feel like I must apologize to everyone who read the story so far because I've decided to delay it until some time next year. There are two reasons:

1. My Power Ranger fic is already developing a fan base, meaning it is more popular.

And 2. I am planning on rebooting the story to be different, yet similar.

The changes won't be drastic and it will progress in the same direction, but there will be some things added and/or changed for it to be even MORE interesting.

Now, because of the extended delay, I would like to know if you(Anon) would like me to release the Catwoman story now, and then return to the rest of the story; OR would you rather wait until her part appears in the story when I resume next year? Either way it'll be quite the wait, but on the bright side, at least it's for the best.


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